JEe  MAKER  of 
VRAINBOWS4 


UC-NRLF 


B    3    331    T3S 


RICHARD     LE     GALLIENNE 


[See  page  48 

OFTEN    SHE    WOULD    LIFT    THE   LID    OF    THE    GOLDEN    COFFER    AND   LOOK   AT    THE 

TATTERED    ROBE 


THE 

MAKER  OF  RAINBOWS 

AND  OTHER  FAIRY-TALES  AND  FABLES 


BY 
RICHARD  LE  GALLIENNE 

Al/THOR  OF 
"AN  OLD  COUNTRY  HOUSE" 


WITH      ILLUSTRATIONS     BY 
ELIZABETH  SHIPPEN  GREEN 


HARPER    &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 

NEW    YORK     AND     LONDON 

MCM  X  I  I 


COPYRIGHT.    1912.    BY    HARPER    ft    BROTHERS 


PRINTED    IN   THE    UNITED    STATES   OF   AMERICA 
PUBLISHED   OCTOBER.    1912 


IM 


THAT  THIS  VOLUME  SHALL  BE  ENTIRELY  IN  KEEPING  WITH 
ITS  FAIRY-TALE  CONTENTS.  I  DEDICATE  IT  TO  MY  GOOD 
FRIENDS.  ITS  PUBLISHERS.  MESSRS.  HARPER  a  BROTHERS 
IN  REMEMBRANCE  OF  KINDLY  RELATIONS  BETWEEN  THEM 
AND    ITS    WRITER    SELDOM     FOUND    OUT    OF    A    FAIRY-TALE 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  The  Old  Coat  of  Dreams i 

II.  The  Maker  of  Rainbows 7 

III.  The  Man  with  Something  in  His  Eye      ...  14 

IV.  Mother-of-Pearl 17 

V.  The  Mer-M other 27 

VI.  The  Sleepless  Lord 29 

VII.  The  Man  with  Xo  Money 39 

VIII.  The  Rags  of  Queen  Cophetua 42 

IX.  The  Wife  from  Fairy-Land 51 

X.  The  Buyer  of  Sorrows 54 

XI.  The  Princess's  Mirror 60 

XII.  The  Pine  Lady 73 

XIII.  The  King  on  His  Way  to  be  Crowned    ...  75 

XIV.  The  Stolen  Dream 88 

XV.  The  Stern   Education  of  Clowns 103 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

OFTEN  SHE  WOULD  LIFT  THE  LID  OF  THE  GOLDEN  COFFER 

AND   LOOK   AT   THE    TATTERED    ROBE Frontispiece 

A   SUDDEN   STRANGE    NEW   LIGHT    WOULD   SHINE   OUT   OF 

ITS    PAGES Facing  p.  30 

HE  WENT  FORTH  INTO  THE  DAWN  SLEEPLESS  ...  "  36 
THE    HERALD    ONCE    MORE    SET    THE    TRUMPET    TO    HIS 

LIPS   AND    BLEW "         56 

HER   ONLY  CARE   WAS   TO   GAZE   ALL   DAY   AT  HER   OWN 

FACE         "         60 


THE    MAKER    OF 
RAINBOWS 


THE  OLD   COAT   OF    DREAMS 

A   PROLOGUE 

PEOPLE  in  London — not  merely  liter- 
§1  ary  folk,  but  even  those  "higher  social 


circles"  to  which  a  certain  publisher, 
whose  name — or  race — it  is  hardly 
fair  to  mention,  had  so  obsequiously 
climbed — often  wondered  whence  had  come  the 
wealth  that  enabled  him  to  maintain  such  an  es- 
tablishment, give  such  elaborate  "parties,"  have 
so  many  automobiles,  and  generally  make  all  that 
display  which  is  so  convincing  to  the  modern 
mind. 

Of  course  they  were  not  seriously  concerned, 
because,  so  long  as  it  is  a  party,  and  the  chef  is 
paid  so  much,  and  the  wines  are  as  old  as  they 
should  be,  not  even  the  rarest  blossom  on  the 
most  ancient  and  distinguished  genealogical  tree 
cares  whose  party  it  is,  or,  indeed,  with  whom  she 
dances.  There  is  only  one  democracy,  and  that 
is    controlled    by    gentlemen    with    names    that 


THE    MAKER    OF    RAINBOWS 

hardly  sound  beautiful  enough  to  mention  in 
fairy  tales — that  democracy  of  money  to  which 
the  fairest  flower  of  our  aristocracy  now  bows  her 
coroneted  head. 

Strange — but  we  all  know  that  so  it  is.  There- 
fore, all  sorts  of  distinguished  and  beautiful  people 
came  to  the  publisher's  "parties." 

It  would  have  made  no  difference,  really,  to  their 
hard  hearts,  could  they  have  known  where  all  the 
champagne  and  conservatories  and  music  came 
from — they  would  have  gone  on  dancing  all  the 
same,  and  eating  pate  defoie  gras  and  sherbets;  yet 
it  may  interest  a  sad  heart  here  and  there  to  know 
how  it  was  that  that  publisher — whose  name  I 
forget,  but  whose  nose  I  can  never  forget — was 
able  to  pay  for  all  that  music  and  dancing,  strange 
flowers,  and  enchanted  food,  none  of  which  he, 
of  course,  understood. 

Aristocrats  in  London,  of  course,  know  nothing 
of  a  northern  district  of  New  York  City  called 
Harlem,  with  so  many  streets  that  a  learned  arith- 
metician would  be  needed  to  number  them :  a  dis- 
trict which,  at  the  first  call  of  spring,  becomes 
vocal  with  children  on  doorsteps  and  venders 
of  every  vegetable  in  every  language.  In  this 
district,  too,  you  hear  strange  trumpets  blow,  an- 


THE    OLD    COAT   OF    DREAMS 

nouncing  knife  and  scissors  grinders,  and  strange 
bells  ringing  from  strings  suspended  across  carts, 
whose  merchandise  is  bottles  and  old  newspapers. 
You  will  hear,  too,  just  when  the  indomitable 
sweet  smells  from  the  terrible  eternal  spring  are 
blowing  in  at  your  window,  and  the  murmur  of 
rich  happy  people  going  away  is  heard  in  the  land, 
a  raucous  cry  in  the  hot  street — a  cry  full  of 
melancholy,  even  despair:  it  goes  something  like 
this—' '  Cash  clo' !     Cash  clo  ' !" 

Well,  it  was  just  then  that  a  young  poet,  living 
in  one  of  those  highly  arithmetical  streets,  was 
wondering,  as  all  the  sad  spring  murmur  came  to 
his  ears,  how  he  could  possibly  buy  a  rose  for  the 
bosom  of  his  sweetheart,  with  whom  he  was  to 
dance  that  night  at  a  local  ball.  Everything  he 
had  in  the  world  had  gone.  He  had  sold  every- 
thing— except  his  poems.  All  his  precious  books 
had  gone,  sad  one  by  one.  Little  paintings  that 
once  made  his  walls  seem  like  the  Louvre  had 
gone.  All  his  old  silver  spoons  and  all  the  little 
intaglios  he  loved  so  well,  and  yes!  he  had  even 
sold  the  old  copper  chest  of  the  Renaissance,  all 
studded  nails,  with  three  locks,  in  which  .  .  .  well, 
all  had  gone.  Only,  where  was  that  rose  for  the 
bosom  of  his  sweetheart — where  was  it  growing  ? 
Where  and  how  was  it  to  be  bought? 

3 


THE    MAKER   OF    RAINBOWS 

Just  as  he  was  at  his  wit's  end,  he  heard  a  cry 
through  the  window.  It  had  meant  nothing  to 
him  before.  Now — strange  as  it  may  sound — it 
meant  a  rose! 

"Cash  clo'!     Cash  clo'!" 

He  had  an  old  dress-suit  in  his  wardrobe.  Per- 
haps that  would  buy  a  rose!  So,  leaning  through 
the  window,  he  called  down  to  the  voice  to  "come 
up." 

The  gentleman  from  Palestine  came  up. 

It  would  be  easy  to  describe  the  contempt  with 
which  he  surveyed  the  distinguished  though  some- 
what ancient  garments  thus  offered  to  him — in 
exchange  for  a  rose ! — how  he  affected  to  examine 
linings  and  seams,  knowing  all  the  time  the  dis- 
tinguished tailor  that  had  made  them,  and  what  a 
bargain  he  was  about  to  drive. 

Of  course,  they  weren't,  well  .  .  .  really  .  .  . 
practically  .  .  .  they  weren't  worth  buying.  .  .  . 

The  poet  wondered  a  moment  about  the  cost  of  a 
rose. 

"Are  they  worth  the  price  of  a  rose?"  he  asked. 

The  gentleman  from  Palestine  didn't,  of  course, 
understand. 

"You  see,"  said  he,  finally;  "I'd  like  to  give 
you  more,  but  you  know  how  it  is  .  .  .  look  at 
these  linings  and  buttonholes!     Honestly,  I  don't 

4 


THE    OLD    COAT   OF    DREAMS 

really  care  about  them  at  all — but — really  a  dollar 
and  a  half  is  the  best  I  can  do  on  them  ..." 
And  he  eyed  the  poet's  clothes  with  contempt. 

"A  dollar  seventy-five,"  said  the  poet,  standing 
firm. 

"All  right,"  at  last  said  the  gentleman  from 
Palestine,  "but  I  don't  see  where  I  am  to  make  any 
profit;  however — "  And  he  handed  out  the  small, 
dirty  money. 

Then  the  poet  bowed  him  out  gently,  saying  in 
his  heart : 

"Now  I  can  buy  my  rose!" 

When  the  Palestinian  dealer  in  old  dress-suits 
went  home — after  sadly  leaving  behind  him  that 
dollar  seventy-five — he  made  an  astonishing  dis- 
covery. 

In  the  necessary  process  of  re-examining  the 
"goods,"  something  fell  out  of  one  of  the  pockets, 
something  the  poet,  after  his  nature,  had  quite 
forgotten.  The  old-clothes  man,  now  a  publisher, 
picked  them  up  from  the  floor  and  gazed  at  them 
in  delight.  The  poet,  in  his  grandiose  careless- 
ness, had  forgotten  to  empty  his  pockets  of  various 
old  dreams! 

Now,  to  be  fair  to  the  gentleman  from  Palestine, 
he  belonged  to  a  race  that  loves  dreams,  and,  to 
do  him  justice,  he  forgot  all  about  the  profit  he  was 

5 


THE    MAKER    OF    RAINBOWS 

to  make  of  the  poor  poet's  clothes,  as  he  sat, 
cross-legged,  on  the  floor,  and  read  the  dreams  that 
had  fallen  from  the  pocket  of  the  poet's  old  dress- 
suit.  He  read  on  and  read  on,  and  laughed  and 
cried — such  a  curious  treasure- trove,  such  an  odd 
medley  of  fairy  tales  and  fables  and  poems  had 
fallen  out  of  the  poet's  pocket — and  it  was  only 
later  that  the  thought  came  to  him  that  he  might 
change  from  an  old-clothes  man  into  a  publisher 
of  dreams. 

Now,  these  are  some  of  the  dreams  that  fell  out 
of  the  poet's  pocket. 


THE    MAKER    OF    RAINBOWS 

Wg&&^§MT  was  a  bleak  November  morning  in 
$the  dreary  little  village  of  Twelve- 
trees.  Nature  herself  seemed  hope- 
H<§1  less  and  disgusted  with  the  universe, 
as  the  chill  mists  stole  wearily  among 
the  bare  trees,  and  the  boughs  dripped  with  a 
clammy  moisture  that  had  nothing  of  the  energy 
of  tears. 

Twelve-trees  was  a  poor  little  village  at  the 
best  of  times,  but  the  oast  summer  had  been  more 
than  usually  unkind  to  it,  and  the  lean  wheat- 
fields  and  the  ragged  orchards  had  been  leaner 
and  more  ragged  than  ever  before — so  said  the 
memory  of  the  oldest  villagers. 

There  was  very  little  to  eat  in  the  village  of 
Twelve-trees,  and  practically  no  money  at  all. 
Some  of  the  inhabitants  found  consolation  in  the 
fact  that  at  the  Inn  of  the  Blessed  Rood  the 
cider-kegs  still  held  out  against  despair. 

But  this  was  no  comfort  to  the  gaunt  and  shiv- 
7 


THE    MAKER    OF    RAINBOWS 

ering  children  left  to  themselves  on  the  chill 
door-steps,  half-heartedly  trying  to  play  their  in- 
nocent little  games.  Even  the  heart  of  childhood 
felt  the  shadows  that  November  morning  in  the 
dreary  little  village  of  Twelve-trees,  and  even  the 
dogs  and  the  cats  of  the  village  seemed  to  be 
under  the  same  spell  of  gloom,  and  moved  about 
with  a  dank  hopelessness,  evidently  expecting 
nothing  in  the  shape  of  discarded  fish  or  trans- 
figuring smells. 

There  was  no  life  in  the  long,  disheveled  High 
Street.  No  one  seemed  to  think  it  worth  while  to 
get  up  and  work.  There  was  nothing  to  get  up 
for,  and  no  work  worth  doing.  So,  naturally,  in 
all  this  echoing  emptiness,  this  lack  of  excitement, 
anything  that  happened  attracted  a  gratefully 
alert  attention — even  from  those  cats  and  dogs  so 
sadly  prowling  amid  the  dejected  refuse  of  the 
village. 

Presently,  amid  all  the  November  numbness, 
the  blank  nothingness  of  the  damp,  deserted  street, 
there  was  to  be  seen  approaching  from  the  south 
a  curious  little  figure  of  an  old  man,  trundling  at 
his  side  a  strange  apparatus  resembling  a  knife- 
grinder's  wheel,  and  he  carried  some  forlorn  old 
umbrellas  under  one  arm.  Evidently  he  was  an 
itinerant  knife-grinder  and  umbrella-mender.    As 

8 


THE    MAKER    OF    RAINBOWS 

he  proceeded  up  the  street,  he  called  out  some 
strange  sing-song,  the  words  of  which  it  was  im- 
possible to  distinguish. 

But,  though  his  cry  was  melancholy,  his  old 
puckered  and  wizened  face  seemed  to  be  alight 
with  some  inner  and  inextinguishable  gladness, 
and  his  electrical  blue  eyes,  startlingly  set  in  a 
network  of  wrinkles,  were  as  fall  of  laughter  as  a 
boy's.  His  cry  attracted  a  weary  face  here  and 
there  at  window  and  door;  but,  seeing  nothing 
but  an  old  knife-grinder,  the  faces  lost  interest 
and  immediately  disappeared.  The  children,  how- 
ever, being  less  sophisticated,  were  filled  with  a 
grateful  curiosity  toward  the  stranger,  and  left 
the  chill  door-steps  and  trooped  about  him  in 
wonder. 

A  little  girl,  with  tears  making  channels  down 
her  pale,  unwashed  face,  caught  the  old  man's  eye. 

"Little  one,"  he  said,  with  a  magical  smile,  and 
a  voice  all  reassuring  love,  "give  me  one  of  those 
tears,  and  I  will  show  you  what  I  can  make  of  it." 

And  he  touched  the  child's  face  with  his  hand, 
and  caught  one  of  her  tears  on  his  ringer,  and 
placed  it,  glittering,  on  his  wheel.  Then,  working 
a  pedal  with  his  foot,  the  wheel  began  to  move  so 
swiftly  that  one  could  see  nothing  but  its  whirl- 
ing; and  as  it  whirled,   wonderful  colored  rays 

o 


THE    MAKER   OF    RAINBOWS 

began  to  rise  from  it,  so  that  presently  the  dreary- 
street  seemed  full  of  rainbows.  The  sad  houses 
were  lit  up  with  a  fairy  radiance,  and  the  faces 
of  the  children  were  all  laughter  again. 

"Well,  little  one,"  he  said,  when  the  wheel 
stopped  whirling,  "did  you  like  what  I  made 
out  of  that  sad  little  tear?" 

And  the  children  laughed,  and  begged  him  to 
do  some  other  trick  for  them. 

At  that  moment  there  came  down  the  street  a 
poor  old  half-witted  woman,  indescribably  dirty 
and  bedraggled,  talking  to  herself  and  laughing 
in  a  creepy  way.  The  village  knew  her  as  Crazy 
Sal,  and  the  children  were  accustomed  to  make 
cruel  sport  of  her.  As  she  came  near  they  began 
to  jeer  at  her,  with  the  heartlessness  of  young, 
unknowing  things. 

But  the  strange  old  man  who  had  made  rain- 
bows out  of  the  little  girl's  tear  suddenly  stopped 
them. 

"Stay,  children,"  he  said,  "and  watch." 

And,  as  he  said  this,  his  wheel  went  whirling 
again;  and  as  it  whirled  a  light  shot  out  from  it, 
so  that  it  illuminated  the  poor  old  woman,  and 
in  its  radiance  she  became  strangely  transfigured. 
In  place  of  Crazy  Sal,  whom  they  had  been  ac- 
customed to  mock,  the  children  saw  a  beautiful 

10 


THE    MAKER   OF    RAINBOWS 

young  girl,  all  blushes  and  bright  eyes  and  pretty 
ribbons;  and  so  great  was  the  murmur  of  their 
surprise  that  it  drew  to  the  door-steps  their  fathers 
and  mothers,  who  also  saw  Crazy  Sal  as  none  of 
them  had  ever  seen  her  before — except  a  very 
old  man  who  remembered  her  as  a  beautiful  young 
girl,  and  remembered,  too,  how  her  mind  had  gone 
from  her  as  the  news  came  one  day  that  her  sweet- 
heart, a  sailor,  had  been  drowned  in  the  North 
Sea. 

"Who  and  what  are  you?"  said  this  old  man, 
stepping  out  a  little  in  front  of  the  gathering  crowd. 
"Are  you  a  wizard,  that  you  change  a  child's 
tears  into  laughter,  and  turn  an  old  half-witted 
woman  back  to  a  young  girl  ?  You  must  be  of  the 
devil  .  .  ." 

Give  me  an  ear  of  corn  from  your  last  harvest, ' ' 
answered  the  old  knife-grinder,  "and  let  me  put 
it  on  my  wheel." 

An  ear  of  corn  was  brought  to  him,  and 
once  more  his  wheel  went  whirring,  and  again 
that  strange  light  shot  out  from  it,  and  spread 
far  past  the  houses  over  the  fields  beyond;  and, 
lo !  to  the  astonished  sad  eyes  of  the  weary  farmers, 
they  appeared  waving  with  golden  grain,  waiting 
for  the  scythe. 

And  again,  as  the  wheel  stopped  whirring,  the 


THE    MAKER   OF    RAINBOWS 

old  man  who  had  remembered  Crazy  Sal  as  a 
young  girl  spoke  to  the  knife-grinder;  again  he 
asked : 

"What  and  who  are  you?  Are  you  a  wizard 
that  you  change  a  child's  tears  into  laughter,  and 
turn  an  old  half-witted  woman  back  to  a  young 
girl,  and  make  of  a  barren  glebe  a  waving  corn- 
field?" 

And  the  man  with  the  strange  wheel  answered: 

"I  am  the  maker  of  rainbows.  I  am  the  al- 
chemist of  hope.  To  me  November  is  always 
May,  tears  are  always  laughter  that  is  going  to 
be,  and  darkness  is  light  misunderstood.  The  sad 
heart  makes  its  own  sorrow,  the  happy  heart 
makes  its  own  joy.  The  harvest  is  made  by  the 
harvestman — and  there  is  nothing  hard  or  black 
or  weary  that  is  not  waiting  for  the  magic  touch 
of  hope  to  become  soft  as  a  spring  flower,  bright 
as  the  morning  star,  and  valiant  as  a  young  run- 
ner in  the  dawn." 

But  the  village  of  Twelve- trees  was  not  to  be 
convinced  by  such  words  made  out  of  moonshine. 
Only  the  children  believed  in  the  laughing  old 
man  with  the  strange  wheel. 

"Rainbows!"  mocked  their  fathers  and  moth- 
ers— "rainbows!  Much  good  are  rainbows  to  a 
starving  village." 

12 


THE    MAKER    OF    RAINBOWS 

The  old  maker  of  rainbows  took  their  taunts 
in  silence,  and  made  ready  to  go  his  way;  but  as 
he  started  once  more  along  the  road  he  said, 
with  a  cynical  smile: 

"Have  you  never  heard  that  there  is  a  pot  of 
gold  at  the  end  of  the  rainbow?  ..." 

"A  pot  of  gold?"  cried  out  the  whole  village 
of  Twelve-trees. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "a  pot  of  gold!  I  know 
where  it  is,  and  I  am  going  to  find  it." 

And  he  moved  on  his  way. 

Then  the  villagers  looked  at  one  another,  and 
said  over  and  over  again,  "A  pot  of  gold!" 

And  they  took  cloaks  and  walking-staves  and 
set  out  to  accompany  the  old  visitor;  but  when 
they  reached  the  outskirts  of  the  village  there 
was  no  sign  of  him.  He  had  mysteriously  dis- 
appeared. 

But  the  children  never  forgot  the  rainbows. 

2 


THE    MAN    WITH    SOMETHING 
IN    HIS    EYE 


[NCE  on  a  time  toward  the  end  of 
February,  when  the  snow  still  fes- 
tered in  the  New  York  streets,  and 
the  wind  blew  cruelly  from  river  to 
river,  a  strange  figure  made  a  some- 
what storm-tossed  progress  along  Forty-second 
Street,  walking  toward  the  East  Side.  He  was  a 
tall,  distinguished,  curiously  sad-looking  man, 
with  longish  hair  growing  gray,  and  clothes  which, 
though  they  had  been  brushed  many  times,  still 
proclaimed  aloud  a  Bond  Street  tailor.  As  he 
walked  along  he  had  evidently  some  trouble  with 
one  of  his  eyes,  which  he  rubbed  from  time  to 
time,  as  though  a  cinder,  perhaps,  from  the  Ele- 
vated Railroad  had  lodged  there,  and  at  last  he  held 
a  handkerchief  to  it  as  he  walked  along.  But 
whatever  the  trouble  was,  it  did  not  seem  to 
interfere  with  a  keen  and  kindly  vision  that  noted 
every  object  and  character  of  the  thronged  street. 
Now  and  again,  strangers  in  that  noisy  and  be- 

14 


SOMETHING    IN    HIS    EYE 

wildering  quarter  would  ask  direction  from  him, 
and  he  never  failed  to  stop  with  an  aristocratic 
painstaking  courtesy  and  set  them  on  their  way. 
Nervous  old  women  with  bundles  at  perilous  cross- 
ings found  his  arm  ready  to  pilot  them  safely  to 
the  other  side.  There  was  about  him  a  curious 
gentleness  which,  after  a  while,  did  not  fail  to 
attract  the  attention  of  enterprising  boys  and 
observing  beggars,  for  whom,  as  he  walked  along, 
evidently  sorely  troubled  with  his  eye,  he  did  not 
fail  to  find  pennies  and  kind  words. 

At  last  he  had  become  so  noticeable  for  these 
oddities  of  behavior  that,  as  he  went  along,  he  had 
collected  quite  an  escort  of  miscellaneous  in- 
dividuals, ragged  children  with  pale,  precocious 
faces,  voluble  old  Irishwomen  with  bedraggled 
petticoats,  sturdy  beggars  on  crutches,  and  a 
sprinkling  of  so-called  "respectable"  people,  curi- 
ously hovering  on  the  skirts  of  the  strange  crowd. 
From  some  of  these  last  came  at  length  unkindly 
comments.  The  man  was  evidently  crazy — more 
probably  he  was  drunk.  But  it  was  plainly  evi- 
dent that  he  had  something  the  matter  with  his 
eye. 

At  last  a  kindly  individual  suggested  that  he 
should  go  to  a  drug-store  and  get  the  drug  clerk 
to  look  at  his  eye.    To  this  the  stranger  assented, 

i5 


THE    MAKER   OF    RAINBOWS 

and,  accompanied  by  his  motley  escort,  he  en- 
tered a  drug-store  and  put  himself  into  the  hands 
of  the  clerk,  while  the  crowd  thronged  the  door 
and  glared  through  the  windows,  wondering  what 
was  the  matter  with  the  eccentric  gentleman,  who, 
after  all,  was  very  free  with  his  pence  and  had 
so  kind  a  tongue.  A  policeman  did  not,  of  course, 
fail  to  elbow  himself  into  the  store,  to  inquire 
what  was  the  matter. 

Meanwhile  the  drug  clerk  proceeded  to  lift  up 
the  stranger's  eyelid  in  a  professional  manner, 
searching  for  the  extraneous  particle  of  pain. 

At  last  he  found  something,  and  made  a  strange 
announcement,  v  The  something  in  the  stranger's 
eye  was — Pity,  i— •* 

No  wonder  it  had  caused  such  a  sensation  in 
the  most  pitiless  city  in  the  world. 


MOTHER-OF-PEARL 

'HERE  was  once  a  poet  who  lived  all 
'  alone  by  the  sea.  He  had  built  for 
himself  a  little  house  of  boulders  mor- 
tised in  among  the  rocks,  so  hidden 
that  it  was  seldom  that  any  wayfarer 
stumbled  upon  his  retreat.  Wayfarers  indeed 
were  few  in  that  solitary  island,  which  was  for  the 
most  part  covered  with  thick  beech  woods,  and 
had  for  its  inhabitants  only  the  wild  creatures  of 
wood  and  water  and  the  strange  unearthly  shapes 
that  none  but  the  poet's  eyes  could  see.  The 
nearest  village  was  miles  away  on  the  mainland, 
and  for  months  at  a  time  the  solitude  would  be 
undisturbed  by  sound  of  human  voice  or  footstep — 
which  was  the  poet's  idea  of  happiness.  The 
world  of  men  had  seemed  to  him  a  world  of  sorrow 
and  foolishness  and  lies,  and  so  he  had  forsaken  it 
to  dwell  with  silence  and  beauty  and  the  sound  of 
the  sea. 

For  him  the  world  had  been  an  uncompanioned 
wilderness.     Here  at  last  his  spirit  had  found  its 

17 


THE    MAKER   OF    RAINBOWS 

home  and  its  kindred.  The  speech  of  men  had 
been  to  him  a  vain  confusion,  but  here  were  the 
voices  he  had  been  born  to  understand,  the  ele- 
mental voices  of  earth  and  sea  and  sky,  the 
secret  wisdom  of  the  eternal.  From  morning  till 
night  his  days  were  passed  in  listening  to  these 
voices,  and  in  writing  down  in  beautiful  words  the 
messages  of  wonder  they  brought  him.  So  his 
little  house  grew  to  be  filled  with  the  lovely  songs 
that  had  come  to  him  out  of  the  sky  and  the  sea 
and  the  haunted  beeches.  He  had  written  them 
in  a  great  book  with  silver  clasps,  and  often  at 
evening,  when  the  moon  was  rising  over  the  sea,  he 
would  sing  them  to  himself,  for  joy  in  the  treasure 
which  he  had  thus  hoarded  out  of  the  air,  as  a  man 
might  weigh  the  grains  of  gold  sifted  from  some 
flowing  river. 

One  night,  as  he  thus  sat  singing  to  himself  in 
the  solitude,  he  was  startled  by  a  deep  sigh,  as  of 
some  human  creature  near  at  hand,  and  looking 
around  he  was  aware  of  a  lovely  form,  half  in  and 
half  out  of  the  water,  gazing  at  him  with  great 
moonlit  eyes  from  beneath  masses  of  golden  hair. 
In  awe  and  delight  he  gazed  back  spellbound  at 
the  unearthly  vision.  It  was  a  fairy  woman  of  the 
sea,  more  beautiful  than  tongue  can  tell.  Over 
her  was  the  supernatural  beauty  of  dreams  and  as 

18 


MOTHER-OF-PEARL 

he  looked  at  her  the  poet's  heart  filled  with  that 
more  than  mortal  happiness  that  only  comes  to  us 
in  dreams. 

"Beautiful  spirit,"  at  length  he  cried,  stretching 
out  his  arms  to  the  vision ;  but  as  he  did  so  she  was 
gone,  and  in  the  place  where  she  had  been  there 
was  nought  but  the  lonely  moonlight  falling  on  the 
rocks. 

"It  was  all  a  trick  of  the  moonlight,"  said  the 
poet  to  himself,  but,  even  as  he  said  it,  there  seemed 
to  come  floating  to  him  the  cadences  of  an  un- 
earthly music  of  farewell. 

In  his  heart  the  poet  knew  that  it  had  not  been 
the  moonlight,  but  that  nature  had  granted  him 
one  c-f  those  mystic  visitations  which  come  only 
to  those  whose  loving  meditation  upon  her  secrets 
have  opened  the  hidden  doors.  She  had  drawn 
aside  for  a  moment  the  veil  of  her  visible  beauty, 
and  vouchsafed  him  a  glimpse  of  her  invisible 
mystery.  But  the  veil  had  been  drawn  again 
almost  instantly,  and  the  poet's  eyes  were  left 
empty  and  hungered  for  the  face  that  had  thus 
momentarily  looked  at  him  through  the  veil. 
Yet  his  heart  was  filled  with  a  high  happiness,  for, 
the  vision  once  his,  would  it  not  be  his  again  ?  Did 
it  not  mean  that  through  the  long  initiation  of  his 
solitary  contemplation  he  had  come  at  length  to 

19 


THE    MAKER    OF    RAINBOWS 

that  aery  boundary  where  the  wall  between  the 
seen  and  the  unseen  grows  transparent  and  the 
human  meets  the  immortal  face  to  face? 

Still,  days  passed,  and  the  poet  watched  in  vain 
for  the  beautiful  woman  of  the  sea.  She  came  not 
again  for  all  his  singing,  and  his  heart  grew  heavy 
within  him;  but  one  day,  as  he  walked  the  sea- 
shore at  dawn,  it  gave  a  great  bound  of  joy,  for 
there  in  mystical  writing  upon  the  silver  sand  was 
a  message  which  no  eyes  but  his  could  have  read. 
But  the  poet  was  skilled  in  the  secret  script  of  the 
elements.  To  him  the  patterns  of  leaves  and 
flowers,  the  traceries  of  moss  and  lichen,  the  mark- 
ings on  rocks  and  trees,  which  to  others  were  but 
meaningless  decorations,  were  the  letters  of  na- 
ture's hidden  language,  the  spell-words  of  her 
runic  wisdom.  To  other  eyes  the  message  he  had 
found  written  on  the  sand  would  have  seemed  but 
a  tangle  of  delicate  weeds  and  shells  cast  up  by 
the  sea.  To  him,  as  he  turned  it  into  our  coarser 
human  speech,  it  said : 

"Seek  me  not, — unsought  I  come, — 
Daughter  of  the  moonlit  foam, 
Near  and  far  am  I  to  thee, 
Near  and  far  as  earth  and  sea, 
As  wave  to  wave,  as  star  to  star, 
Near  and  far,  near  and  far." 


MOTHER-OF-PEARL 

And  that  night,  when  the  poet  sat  and  sang, 
with  full  heart,  in  the  moonlight — lo!  the  vision 
was  there  once  more.  .  .  .  But  again,  as  he 
stretched  out  his  arms,  she  was  gone.  But  this 
time  the  poet  did  not  grieve  as  before,  for  he 
knew  that  she  would  come  again,  as  indeed  it 
befell.  When  she  appeared  to  him  the  third  time 
she  had  stolen  so  near  to  his  side  that  he  could 
gaze  deep  into  her  strange  eyes,  as  into  the  fath- 
omless, moonlit  sea,  and  at  the  ending  of  his  song 
she  did  not  fade  away  as  before,  but  her  long 
hair  fell  all  about  him  like  a  net  of  moonbeams, 
and  she  lay  like  the  moon  herself  in  his  enraptured 
arms. 

To  the  passionate  lover  of  nature,  the  anchorite 
of  her  solitudes,  there  often  comes,  in  the  very 
hour  of  his  closest  approach  to  her,  an  aching 
sense  of  incomplete  oneness  with  her,  a  human 
desire  for  some  responsive  embodiment  of  her 
mysterious  beauty;  and  there  are  ecstatic  mo- 
ments in  which  nature  seems  on  the  tremulous 
verge  of  sending  us  a  magic  answer — moments  of 
intense  reverie  when  the  woods  seem  about  to 
reveal  to  us  the  inner  heart  of  their  silence,  in 
some  sudden  shape  of  unimaginable  enchantment, 
or  the  infinite  of  the  starry  night  take  form  at 
our  side  in  some  companionable  radiance.     We 


THE    MAKER    OF    RAINBOWS 

long,  as  it  were,  to  press  our  lips  to  the  forehead 
of  the  dawn,  to  crush  the  leafy  abundance  of 
summer  to  our  breast,  and  to  fold  the  infinite 
ocean  in  our  embrace. 

To  the  poet,  reward  of  his  lonely  vigils  and 
endless  longing,  nature  had  granted  this  marvel. 
How  often,  as  he  had  gazed  at  the  moon  rising 
out  of  the  sea,  had  he  dreamed  of  a  shining  shape 
that  came  to  him  along  her  silver  pathway.  And 
to-night  the  mystery  of  the  moonlit  sea  was  in 
his  arms.  No  longer  a  lovely  vision  calling  him 
from  afar — an  unapproachable  wonder,  a  voice,  a 
gleam — but  a  miraculously  embodied  spirit  of  the 
elements,  supernaturally  fair. 

The  poet  was,  more  than  all  men,  learned  in 
beautiful  words,  but  he  could  find  no  words  for 
this  strange  happiness  that  had  befallen  him; 
indeed,  he  had  now  passed  beyond  the  world  of 
words,  and  as  he  gazed  into  those  magic  eyes, 
that  seemed  like  sea-flowers  growing  out  of  the 
air,  they  spoke  to  each  other  as  wave  talks  to 
wave,  or  the  leaves  whisper  together  on  the  trees,  f 

So  it  was  that  the  poet  ceased  to  be  alone  in 
his  solitude,  and  the  fairy  woman  from  the  sea 
became  his  wife,  and  very  wonderful  was  their 
happiness.  But,  as  with  all  happiness,  theirs,  too, 
was  not  without  its  touch  of  sorrow.     For,  mar- 

22 


MOTHER-OF-PEARL 

velously  wedded  though  they  were,  so  closely 
united  that  they  seemed  veritably  one  rather 
than  two  beings,  there  had  been  a  deep  meaning 
to  that  little  song  which  the  poet  had  found 
written  in  seaweed  upon  the  sand: 

"  Near  and  far  am  I  to  thee, 
Near  and  far  as  earth  and  sea," 

it  had  said, 

"  Near  and  far,  near  and  far." 

For  not  even  their  love  could  cast  down  for 
them  one  eternal  barrier.  They  could  meet  and 
love  across  it,  but  it  was  still  there.  They  were 
children  of  two  diverse  elements,  and  neither 
could  cross  from  one  into  the  other — she  a  child 
of  the  blue  sea,  he  a  child  of  the  green  earth. 
She  must  always  leave  him  at  the  edge  of  the 
mysterious  woods  in  which  her  heart  ached  to 
wander,  and,  however  far  out  into  the  wide 
waters  he  would  swim  at  her  side,  there  would 
always  be  those  deep-sea  grottoes  and  flower- 
gardens  whither  he  could  never  follow.  Down 
into  these  enchanted  depths  he  would  watch  her 
glide  her  shimmering  way,  but  never  might  he 
follow  her  to  the  hidden  kingdoms  of  the  sea. 
He  must  await  her  out  there,  an  alien,  in  the 
upper  sunshine,  and  watch  her  glittering  kindred 

23 


THE    MAKER   OF    RAINBOWS 

stream  in  and  out  the  rainbowed  portals — till 
again  she  was  at  his  side,  her  hands  filled  for  his 
consolation  with  the  secret  treasures  of  the  sea. 

So  would  she,  from  the  shore,  with  despair  in 
her  eyes,  watch  him  disappear  among  the  beech- 
trees  to  gather  for  her  the  waxen  flowers  and  the 
sweet-smelling  green  leaves  and  grasses  she  loved 
more  than  any  that  grew  in  the  sea.  Thus  across 
their  barrier  would  they  make  exchange  of  the 
marvels  that  grew  on  either  side,  and  thus,  in- 
deed, the  barrier  grew  less  and  less  by  reason  of 
their  love.  Sometimes  they  asked  each  other  if 
that  other  mystery,  Death,  would  remove  the 
barrier  altogether.   .   .   . 

But  at  the  heart  of  the  woman  Life  was  already 
whispering  another  answer. 

"What,"  said  she,  as  they  watched  the  solemn 
stars  in  the  still  water  one  summer  night,  "what 
if  a  little  being  were  born  to  us  that  should  belong 
to  both  our  worlds,  to  your  green  earth  and  to 
my  blue  sea?  Would  you  seem  so  lonely  then? 
A  little  being  that  could  run  by  your  side  in  the 
meadows,  and  swim  with  me  into  the  depths  of 
the  sea!  .  .  ." 

"Would  you  be  so  lonely  then?"  he  echoed. 

And  lo!  after  a  season,  it  was  this  very  marvel 
that  came  to  pass;  for  one  night,  as  she  came 

24 


MOTHER-OF-PEARL 

along  the  moon-path  to  his  side,  she  was  not  alone, 
but  a  tiny  fairy  woman  was  with  her — a  little 
radiant  creature  that,  as  her  mother  had  dreamed, 
could  gather  with  one  hand  the  flowers  that  grow 
in  the  deeps  of  the  wood  and  with  the  other  the 
flowers  that  grow  in  the  deeps  of  the  sea. 

Like  any  other  mortal  babe  she  was,  save  for 
this:  around  her  waist  ran  a  shimmering  girdle — 
of  mother-of-pearl. 

So  the  poet  and  his  wife  called  her  Mother-of- 
Pearl;  and  she  became  for  them,  as  it  were,  a 
baby-bridge  between  two  elements.  In  her  mys- 
terious life  their  two  lives  became  one,  as  never 
before.  So  near  she  brought  them  to  each  other 
that  often  there  seemed  no  barrier  at  all.  And 
thus  days  and  years  passed,  and  very  wonderful 
was  their  happiness. 

But  by  this  the  world  which  the  poet  had  for- 
gotten had  grown  curious  regarding  the  life  which 
he  lived  alone  among  the  rocks.  Many  of  his 
songs,  as  songs  will,  had  escaped  from  his  soli- 
tude, and  floated  singing  among  men;  and  weird 
rumors  grew  of  the  strange  happiness  that  had 
come  to  him.  Some  of  the  more  curious  had  spied 
upon  him  in  his  seclusion,  and  had  brought  back 
to  the  town  marvelous  accounts  of  having  seen 
him  in  the  moonlight  with  his  fairy  wife  and  child 


THE    MAKER   OF    RAINBOWS 

at  his  side.  And,  after  its  fashion,  the  world  had 
decided  that  here  was  plainly  the  work  of  the 
devil,  and  that  the  poet  was  a  wizard  in  league 
with  the  powers  of  darkness.  So  the  ignorant 
world  has  ever  interpreted  the  beauty  it  could 
not  understand,  and  the  happiness  it  could  not  give. 

Thus  a  cloud  began  to  gather  of  which  the  poet 
and  his  mer-wife  and  little  Mother-of-  Pearl  knew 
nothing,  and  one  evening  at  moonrise,  as  they 
were  disporting  themselves  in  their  innocent  hap- 
piness by  the  sea,  it  burst  upon  them  from  the  beech- 
trees  with  a  gathering  murmur  and  a  sudden  roar. 

A  great  mob,  uttering  cries  and  waving  torches, 
broke  from  the  wood  and  ran  toward  them. 

"Death  to  the  wizard!"  they  cried.  "Death! 
Death!" 

As  the  poet  heard  them,  he  turned  to  his  wife 
and  little  Mother-of -Pearl.  "Fear  not,"  he  cried, 
"they  cannot  hurt  us." 

Then,  as  again  the  cry  went  up,  "Death  to 
the  wizard!"  a  sudden  light  shone  in  his  face. 

"Death  .  .  .  yes!  That  is  the  last  door  of  the 
barrier  ..."  and  he  plunged  into  the  moonlit  water. 

And  when  the  rabble  at  length  reached  the 
shore  with  their  torches,  the  poet  and  his  loved 
ones  were  already  lost  in  the  silver  pathway  that 
leads  to  the  hidden  kingdoms  of  the  sea. 

26 


THE    MER- MOTHER 

JNE  day,  walking  by  the  sea, 
I  heard  a  sweet  voice  calling  me: 
I  looked — but  nothing  could  I  see; 
I  listened — but  no  more  I  heard; 
Only  the  sea  and  the  sea-bird 
And  the  blue  sky  were  there  with  me. 

But  on  another  happier  day, 
When  all  the  sea  was  sun  and  spray, 
And  laughing  shout  of  wind  and  foam, 
I  seemed  to  hear  the  voice  once  more, — 
Wilder  and  sweeter  than  before, 

0  wild  as  love  and  sweet  as  home. 

1  looked,  and  lo!  before  me  there 
A  maiden  sat  in  seaweeds  drest, 
Sea-flowers  hiding  in  her  breast, 
And  with  a  comb  of  deep-sea  pearl 
She  combed,  like  any  other  girl, 
Her  golden  hair — her  golden  hair. 

27 


THE    MAKER    OF    RAINBOWS 

And,  as  each  shining  yellow  curl 
Flickered  like  sunshine  through  the  pearl, 
She  laughed  and  sang — but  not  for  me : 
Three  little  babies  of  the  sea 
Were  diving  in  and  out  for  joy — 
Two  mer-girls  and  a  small  mer-boy. 

That  fairy  song  was  not  for  me, 

Nor  those  green  eyes,  nor  that  gold  hair; 

Deep  in  the  caves  beneath  the  foam 

There  was  a  husband  and  a  home — 

It  was  a  mermaid  taking  care 

Of  her  small  children  of  the  sea. 


THE    SLE  EPLESS    LORD 

gg^^HERE  was  once  a  great  lord.  He 
.•  -'"^J  ^'"r?/  was  ,l,nl  ol~  sevcn  castles,  and  there 

P§#  were  seven  coronets  upon  his  head. 

^  He  was  richer  than  he  ever  gave 
$t$&5£t=M  himself  the  trouble  to  think  of,  for, 
north,  south,  east,  and  west,  the  horizon  even  set 
no  bounds  to  his  estates.  A  thousand  villages 
and  ten  thousand  farms  were  in  the  hollow  of  his 
hand,  and  into  his  coffers  flowed  the  fruitfulness 
and  labor  of  all  these.  Therefore,  as  you  can 
imagine,  he  was  a  very  rich  lord.  He  had  more 
beautiful  titles,  denoting  the  various  principalities 
over  which  he  was  lord,  than  the  deepest-lunged 
herald  could  proclaim  without  taking  breath  at 
least  three  times.  In  person  he  was  most  noble 
and  beautiful  to  look  upon,  and  his  voice  was 
like  the  rippling  of  waters  under  the  moon,  save 
when  it  was  like  the  call  of  a  golden  trumpet. 
He  stood  foremost  in  the  counsels  of  his  realm, 
not  only  for  his  eloquence,  but  for  his  wisdom. 
Also,  God  had  given  him  a  good  heart. 


THE    MAKER   OF    RAINBOWS 

Only  one  gift  had  been  denied  him — the  gift 
of  sleep.  By  whatever  means  he  might  weary 
himself  in  the  day — in  study,  in  sport,  in  recrea- 
tion, or  in  the  business  of  the  realm — night  found 
him  sleepless,  and  all  the  dark  hours  the  lights 
burned  in  his  bedchamber  and  in  his  library,  as 
he  would  pace  from  one  to  the  other,  with  eyes 
tragically  awake  and  brain  torturingly  alert  and 
clear. 

Every  means  known  to  science  by  which  to 
bring  sleep  to  the  eyes  of  sleepless  men  had  been 
tried  in  vain.  Learned  physicians  from  all  parts 
of  the  world  had  come  to  my  lord's  castle,  and 
had  gone  thence,  confessing  that  their  skill  had 
availed  nothing.  All  strange  and  terrible  drugs 
that  have  power  over  the  spirit  of  man  had  failed 
to  conquer  those  stubborn  eyelids.  My  lord  still 
paced  from  his  bedchamber  to  his  library,  from 
his  library  to  his  bedchamber — sleepless. 

Sometimes  in  his  anguish  he  had  thrown  him- 
self on  his  knees  in  prayer  before  a  God  whom  he 
had  not  always  remembered — the  God  who  giveth 
His  beloved  sleep — but  his  prayers  had  remained 
unanswered;  and  in  his  darkest  moments  he  had 
dreamed  of  snatching  by  his  own  hands  that 
sleep  perpetual  of  which  a  great  Latin  poet  he 
loved  had  sung.    Often,  as  he  paced  his  library,  he 

3° 


A    SUDDEN    STRANGE    NEW    LK.HT    WOULD    SHINE    "i   r    <  IF    II-    PAGES 


THE    SLEEPLESS    LORD 

would  say  over  and  over  to  himself,  Nox  est  pcr- 
petua  una  dormienda — and  in  the  still  night  the 
old  words  would  often  sound  like  soft  dark  voices 
calling  him  away  into  the  endless  night  of  the 
endless  sleep.  But  he  was  not  the  man  to  take 
that  way  of  escape.  No;  whatever  the'  suffering 
might  be,  he  would  fight  it  out  to  the  end,  and  so 
he  continued  sleepless,  trying  this  resource  and 
that,  but,  most  of  all,  that  first  and  last  resource 
— courage.  It  is  seldom  that  courage  fails  to 
wrest  for  us  some  recompense  from  the  hardest 
situation,  and  the  sleepless  man,  as  night  after 
night  he  fought  with  his  fate,  did  not  miss  such 
hard-wrung  rewards.  Often,  as  in  the  deepest 
hush  of  the  night  he  wearily  took  up  some  great  old 
book  of  philosopher  or  poet  familiar  to  him  from 
his  youth,  a  sudden  strange  new  light  would 
shine  out  of  its  pages,  as  of  some  inner  radiance 
of  truth  which  he  had  missed  in  his  daylight  read- 
ing. At  such  times  an  exaltation  would  come 
over  him,  and  it  would  almost  seem  as  though  the 
curse  upon  him  was  really  a  blessing  of  initiation 
into  the  world  of  a  deeper  wisdom,  the  gate  of 
which  is  hidden  by  the  glare  of  the  sun.  In  the 
daylight  the  eternal  voices  are  lost  in  the  transi- 
tory clamor  of  human  business;  it  is  only  when 
the  night  falls,  and  the  stars  rise,  and  the  noise 

3i 


THE    MAKER   OF    RAINBOWS 

of  men  dies  down  like  the  drone  of  some  sleeping 
insect,  that  the  solemn  thoughts  of  God  may  be 
heard. 

Other  compensations  he  found  when,  weary  of 
his  books  and  despairing  of  sleep,  he  would  leave 
his  house  and  wander  through  the  silent  city, 
where  the  roaring  thoroughfares  of  the  daytime 
were  silent  as  the  pyramids,  and  the  great  ware- 
houses seemed  like  deserted  palaces  haunted  by 
the  moon.  Night-walkers  like  himself  grew  to 
find  his  figure  familiar,  and  would  say  to  them- 
selves, or  to  each  other,  "There  goes  the  lord 
who  never  sleeps";  and  the  watchmen  on  their 
rounds  all  knew  and  saluted  the  man  whose  eye- 
lids never  closed.  Enforced  as  these  nocturnal 
rambles  were,  they  revealed  to  him  much  beau- 
tiful knowledge  which  those  more  fortunate  ones 
asleep  in  their  beds  must  ever  miss.  Thus  he 
came  in  contact  with  all  the  vast  nocturnal  labor 
of  the  world,  the  toil  of  sleepless  men  who  keep 
watch  over  the  sleeping  earth,  and  work  through 
the  night  to  make  it  ready  for  the  new-born 
day ;  all  that  labor  which  is  put  away  and  forgotten 
with  the  rising  of  the  sun,  and  of  which  the  day 
asks  no  questions,  so  that  the  result  be  there. 
This  brought  him  very  near  to  humanity  and 
taught  him  a  deep  pity  for  the  grinding  lot  of  man. 

32      . 


THE    SLEEPLESS    LORD 

Then — was  it  no  compensation  for  this  sleep- 
less one  that  he  thus  became  a  companion  of  all 
the  ensorceled  beauty  of  Night,  walking  by  her 
side,  a  confidant  of  her  mystic  talk,  as  he  gazed 
into  her  everlasting  eyes?  Was  it  nothing  to  be 
the  intimate  of  all  her  sibylline  moods,  learned 
in  every  haunted  murmur  of  her  voice,  intrusted 
with  her  lunar  secrets,  and  a  friend  of  all  her 
stars  ? 

Yes!  it  was  much  indeed,  he  often  said  to  him- 
self, as  he  turned  homeward  with  the  first  flush 
of  morning,  and  met  the  great  sweet-smelling  wains 
coming  from  the  country,  laden  with  fruits  and 
flowers,  and  making  their  way  like  moving  orchards 
and  meadows  through  the  city  streets. 

The  big  wagoners,  too,  were  well  acquainted 
with  the  great  lord  who  never  slept,  and  would 
always  stop  when  they  saw  him,  for  it  was  his 
custom  to  buy  from  them  a  bunch  of  country 
flowers. 

"The  country  dew  is  still  on  them,"  he  would 
say;  "it  will  have  dried  long  since  when  the 
people  sleeping  yonder  come  to  buy  them,"  and, 
as  he  slipped  back  into  his  house,  he  would  often 
feel  a  sort  of  pity  for  those  who  slept  so  well 
that  they  never  saw  the  stars  set  and  the  sun  rise. 

Such  were  some  of  the  compensations  with 
33 


THE    MAKER    OF    RAINBOWS 

which  he  strove  to  strengthen  his  soul — not  all 
in  vain.  So  time  passed;  but  at  length  the  strain 
of  those  interminable  nights  began  to  tell  upon 
the  sleepless  man,  and  strange  fancies  began  to 
take  possession  of  him.  His  vigils  were  no  longer 
lonely,  but  inhabited  by  spectral  voices  and 
shadowy  faces.  Rebellion  against  his  fate  began 
to  take  the  place  of  courage;  and  one  night,  in 
anger  against  his  unending  ordeal,  he  said  to 
himself:  "Am  I  not  a  great  lord?  It  is  intolerable 
that  I  should  be  denied  that  simple  thing  which 
the  humblest  and  poorest  possess  so  abundantly. 
Am  I  not  rich?     I  will  go  forth  and  buy  sleep." 

So  saying,  he  took  from  a  cabinet  a  great  jewel 
of  priceless  value.  "It  is  worth  half  my  estate," 
he  said.  "Surely  with  this  I  can  buy  sleep." 
And  he  went  out  into  the  night. 

As  if  in  irony,  the  night  was  unusually  wide- 
awake with  stars,  and  the  moon  was  almost  at 
its  full.  As  the  sleepless  one  looked  up  into  the 
firmament,  it  almost  seemed  as  though  it  mocked 
him  with  his  brilliant  wakefulness.  From  horizon 
to  horizon,  in  all  the  heaven,  there  was  to  be  seen 
no  downiest  feather  of  the  wings  of  sleep.  To  his 
upturned  eyes,  pleading  for  the  mercy  of  sleep, 
the  stars  sent  down  an  answer  of  polished  steel. 
And  so  he  turned  his  eyes  again  upon  the  earth. 

34 


THE    SLEEPLESS    LORD 

Everything  there  also,  even  the  keenly  cut 
shadows,  seemed  pitilessly  awake.  It  almost 
seemed  as  though  God  had  withdrawn  the  blessing 
of  sleep  from  His  universe. 

But  no!  Suddenly  he  gave  a  cry  of  joy,  as 
presently,  by  the  riverside,  stretched  in  an  angle 
of  its  granite  embankment,  as  though  it  had  been 
a  bed  of  down,  he  came  upon  a  great  workman 
fast  asleep,  with  his  arms  over  his  head  and  his 
face  full  in  the  light  of  the  moon.  His  breath 
came  and  went  with  the  regularity  of  a  man  who 
has  done  his  day's  work  and  is  healthily  tired 
out.  He  seemed  to  be  drinking  great  draughts 
of  sleep  out  of  the  sky,  as  one  drinks  water  from 
a  spring.  He  was  poorly  clad,  and  evidently  a 
wanderer  on  the  earth;  but,  houseless  as  he  was, 
to  him  had  been  granted  that  healing  gift  which 
the  great  lord  who  gazed  at  him  had  prayed  for 
in  vain  for  months  and  years,  and  for  which  this 
night  he  was  willing  to  surrender  half — nay,  the 
whole — of  his  wealth,  if  needs  be — 

Only  a  little  holiday  of  sleep, 

Soft  sleep,  sweet  sleep;  a  little  soothing  psalm, 

Of  slumber  from  Thy  sanctuaries  of  calm. 

A  little  sleep — it  matters  not  how  deep; 

A  little  falling  feather  from  Thy  wing: 

Merciful  Lord — is  it  so  great  a  thing? 

35 


THE    MAKER   OF    RAINBOWS 

The  sleepless  one  gazed  at  the  sleeper  a  long 
time,  fascinated  by  the  mystery  and  beauty  of 
that  strange  gift  that  had  been  denied  him.  Then 
he  took  the  jewel  in  his  hand  and  looked  at  it, 
picturing  to  himself  the  sleeping  man's  surprise 
when  he  awoke  in  the  morning  and  found  so  un- 
expected a  treasure  in  his  possession,  and  all 
that  the  sudden  acquisition  of  such  wealth  would 
mean  to  him.  But,  as  I  said  at  the  beginning, 
God  had  given  him  a  good  heart,  and,  as  he  gazed 
on  the  man's  sleep  again,  a  pang  of  misgiving 
shot  through  him.  After  all,  what  were  worldly 
possessions  compared  with  this  natural  boon  of 
which  he  was  about  to  rob  the  sleeping  man? 
Would  all  his  castles  be  a  fair  exchange  for  that? 
And  was  he  about  to  subject  a  fellow  human  being 
to  the  torture  which  he  had  endured  to  the  verge 
of  madness? 

For  a  long  time  he  stood  over  the  sleeper 
struggling  with  himself. 

"No!"  at  last  he  said.  "I  cannot  rob  him  of 
his  sleep,"  and  turned  and  passed  on  his  way. 

Presently  he  came  to  where  a  beautiful  woman 
lay  asleep  with  a  little  child  in  her  arms.  They 
were  evidently  poor  outcasts,  yet  how  tranquilly 
they  lay  there,  as  if  all  the  riches  of  the  earth 
were  theirs,  and  as  if  there  was  no  hard  world 

36 


HE    WI.M     I.iKIll    INTO    rHI     DAWN    SLEEPLESS 


THE    SLEEPLESS    LORD 

to  fight  on  the  morrow.  If  sleep  had  seemed 
beautiful  on  the  face  of  the  sleeping  workman, 
how  much  more  beautiful  it  seemed  here,  laying 
its  benediction  upon  this  poor  mother  and  child. 
How  trustfully  they  lay  in  its  arms  out  there  in 
the  shelterless  night,  as  though  relying  on  the 
protection  of  the  ever-watchful  stars.  Surely  he 
could  not  violate  this  sanctuary  of  sleep,  and 
think  to  make  amends  by  exchange  of  his  poor 
worldly  possessions.  No!  he  must  go  on  his  way 
again.  But  first  he  took  a  ring  from  his  finger 
and  slipped  it  gently  into  the  baby's  hand.  The 
tiny  hand  closed  over  it  with  the  firmness  of  a 
baby's  clutch.  "It  will  be  safe  there  till  morn- 
ing," he  said  to  himself,  and  left  them  to  their 
slumbers. 

So  he  passed  along  through  the  city,  and  every- 
where were  sleeping  forms  and  houses  filled  with 
sleepers,  but  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  carry 
out  his  plan  and  buy  sleep.  Sleep  was  too  beau- 
tiful and  sacred  a  thing  to  be  bought  with  the 
most  precious  stone,  and  man  was  so  piteously 
in  need  of  it  at  each  long  day's  end. 

Thus  he  went  on  his  way,  and  at  last,  as  the 
dawn  was  showing  faint  in  the  sky,  he  found 
himself  in  a  churchyard,  and  above  one  of  the 
graves  was  growing  a  shining  silver  flower. 

37 


THE    MAKER   OF    RAINBOWS 

"It  is  the  flower  of  sleep,"  said  the  sleepless 
one,  and  he  bent  over  eagerly  to  gather  it;  but 
as  he  did  so  his  eyes  fell  upon  an  inscription  on 
the  stone.  It  was  the  grave  of  a  beautiful  girl 
who  had  died  of  heart-break  for  her  lover. 

"I  may  not  pluck  it,"  he  said.  "She  needs 
her  sleep  as  well." 

And  he  went  forth  into  the  dawn  sleepless. 


THE     MAN    WITH     NO    MONEY 

A  FABLE  FOR  CAPITALISTS 

(NCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  man 
who  found  himself,  suddenly  and 
sadly,  without  any  money.  I  am 
aware  that  in  these  days  it  is  hard 
to  believe  such  a  story.  Nowadays, 
everybody  has  money,  and  it  may  seem  like  a 
stretch  of  the  imagination  to  suggest  a  time  when 
a  man  should  search  his  pockets  and  find  them 
empty.  But  this  is  merely  a  fairy  tale;  so,  I 
trust  that  the  reader  will  help  me  out  by  tak- 
ing so  apparently  preposterous  a  statement  for 
granted. 

The  man  had  been  a  merchant  of  butterflies 
in  Ispahan,  and,  though  his  butterflies  had  flitted 
all  about  the  flowered  world,  the  delight  of  many- 
tongued  and  many-colored  nations,  he  found  him- 
self at  the  close  of  the  day  a  very  poor  and 
weary  man. 

He   had   but   one   consolation   and   companion 
39 


THE    MAKER   OF    RAINBOWS 

left — a  strange,  black  butterfly,  which  he  kept 
in  a  silver  cage,  and  only  looked  at  now  and 
again,  when  he  was  quite  sure  that  he  was  alone. 
He  had  sold  all  his  other  butterflies — all  the 
rainbow  wings — but  this  dark  butterfly  he  would 
keep  till  the  end. 

Kings  and  queens,  in  sore  sorrow  and  need, 
had  offered  him  great  sums  for  his  black  butter- 
fly, but  it  was  the  only  beautiful  thing  he  had 
left — so,  selfishly,  he  kept  it  to  himself.  Mean- 
while, he  starved  and  wandered  the  country 
roads,  homeless  and  foodless:  his  breakfast  the 
morning  star,  his  supper  the  rising  moon.  But, 
sad  as  was  his  heart,  and  empty  as  was  his  stom- 
ach, laughter  still  flickered  in  his  tired  eyes;  and 
he  possessed,  too,  a  very  shrewd  mind,  as  a  man 
who  sells  butterflies  must.  Making  his  breakfast 
of  blackberries  one  September  morning,  in  the 
middle  of  an  old  wood,  with  the  great  cages  of 
bramble  overladen  with  the  fruit  of  the  solitude, 
an  idea  came  to  him.  Thereupon  he  sought  out 
some  simple  peasants  and  said:  "Why  do  you 
leave  these  berries  to  fall  and  wither  in  the  soli- 
tude, when  in  the  markets  of  the  world  much 
money  may  be  made  of  them  for  you  and  for 
your  household?  Gather  them  for  me,  and  I  will 
sell  them  and  give  you  a  fair  return  for  your  labor." 

40 


THE    MAN    WITH    NO    MONEY 

Now,  of  course,  the  blackberries  did  not  belong 
to  the  dealer  in  butterflies.  They  were  the  free 
gift  of  God  to  men  and  birds.  But  the  simple 
peasants  never  thought  of  that.  Instead,  they 
gathered  them,  east  and  west,  into  bushel  and 
hogshead,  and  the  man  that  had  no  money,  that 
September  morning,  smiled  to  himself  as  he  paid 
them  their  little  wage,  and  filled  his  pockets,  that 
before  had  been  so  empty,  with  the  money  that 
God  and  the  blackberries  and  the  peasants  had 
made  for  him. 

Thus  he  grew  so  rich  that  he  seldom  looked 
at  the  dark  butterfly  in  the  silver  cage  —  but 
sometimes,  in  the  night,  he  heard  the  beating  of 
its  wings. 


THE  RAGS  OF  QUEEN  COPHETUA 

'HEN  the  first  dazzle  of  bewildered 
happiness  in  her  new  estate  had 
faded  from  her  eyes,  and  the  mir- 
acle of  her  startling  metamorphosis 
from  a  wandering  beggar-maid  to 
a  great  Queen  on  a  throne  was  beginning  to  lose 
a  little  of  its  wonder  and  to  take  its  place  among 
the  accepted  realities  of  life,  Queen  Cophetua  be- 
came growingly  conscious  of  some  dim  dissatis- 
faction and  unrest  in  her  heart. 

Indeed,  she  had  all  that  the  world  could  give, 
and  surely  all  that  a  woman's  heart  is  supposed 
to  desire.  The  King's  love  was  still  hers  as  when 
he  found  her  at  dawn  by  the  pool  in  the  forest; 
and,  in  exchange  for  the  tattered  rags  which  had 
barely  concealed  the  water-lily  whiteness  of  her 
body,  countless  wardrobes  were  filled  with  gar- 
ments of  every  variety  of  subtle  design  and  ex- 
quisite fabric,  textures  light  as  the  golden  sun, 
purple  as  the  wine-dark  sea,  iridescent  as  the 
rainbow,  and  soft  as  summer  clouds — the  better 

42 


RAGS    OF   QUEEN    COPHETUA 

to  set  off  her  strange  beauty  for  the  eyes  of  the 
King. 

And,  every  day  of  the  year,  the  King  brought 
her  a  new  and  priceless  jewel  to  hang  about  her 
neck,  or  wear  upon  her  moonbeam  hands,  or  to 
shine  in  the  fragrant  night  of  her  hair. 

Ah!  what  a  magical  wooing  that  had  been  in 
the  depths  of  the  forest,  that  strange  morning! 
The  sun  was  hardly  above  the  tops  of  the  trees 
when  she  had  awakened  from  sleep  at  the  mossy 
foot  of  a  giant  beech,  and  its  first  beams  were 
casting  a  solemn  enchantment  across  a  great  pool 
of  water-lilies  and  filling  their  ivory  cups  with 
strange  gold.  She  had  lain  still  a  while,  watching 
through  her  sleepy  eyelids  the  unfolding  marvel 
of  the  dawn;  and  then  rousing  herself,  she  had 
knelt  by  the  pool,  and  letting  down  her  long  hair 
that  fell  almost  to  her  feet  had  combed  and 
braided  it,  with  the  pool  for  her  mirror — a  mirror 
with  water-lilies  for  its  frame.  And,  as  she  gazed  at 
herself  in  the  clear  water,  with  a  girlish  happiness 
in  her  own  beauty,  a  shadow  fell  over  the  pond; 
and,  startled,  she  saw  beside  her  own  face  in  the 
mirror  the  face  of  a  beautiful  young  knight,  so  it 
seemed,  bending  over  her  shoulder.  In  fear  and 
maiden  modesty — for  her  hair  was  only  half 
braided,  and,  whiter  than  any  water-lily  in  the 

43 


THE    MAKER    OF    RAINBOWS 

pond,  her  bosom  glowed  bare  in  the  morning  sun- 
light— she  turned  around,  and  met  the  eyes  of 
the  King. 

Without  moving,  each  gazed  at  the  other  as 
in  a  dream — eyes  lost  fathom-deep  in  eyes. 

At  last  the  King  found  voice  to  speak. 

"You  must  be  a  fairy,"  he  had  said,  "for 
surely  you  are  too  beautiful  to  be  human!" 

"Nay,  my  lord,"  she  had  answered,  "I  am 
but  a  poor  girl  that  wanders  with  my  lute  yonder 
from  village  to  village  and  town  to  town,  singing 
my  little  songs." 

"You  shall  wander  no  more,"  said  the  King. 
"Come  with  me,  and  you  shall  sit  upon  a  throne 
and  be  my  Queen,  and  I  will  love  you  for- 
ever." 

But  she  could  not  answer  a  word,  for  fear  and 
joy. 

And  therewith  the  King  took  her  by  the  hand, 
and  set  her  upon  his  horse  that  was  grazing  hard 
by;  and,  mounting  behind  her,  he  rode  with  her 
in  his  arms  to  the  city,  and  all  the  while  her 
eyes  looked  up  into  his  eyes,  as  she  leaned  upon 
his  shoulder,  and  his  eyes  looked  deep  down 
into  hers — but  they  spake  not  a  word.  Only 
once,  at  the  edge  of  the  forest,  he  had  bent  down 
and  kissed  her  on  the  lips,  and  it  seemed  to  both 

44 


RAGS    OF   QUEEN    COPHETUA 

as  if  heaven  with  all  its  stars  was  falling  into 
their  hearts. 

As  they  rode  through  the  city  to  the  palace, 
surrounded  by  wondering  crowds,  she  nestled 
closer  to  his  side,  like  a  frightened  bird,  and  like 
a  wild  bird's  were  her  great  eyes  gazing  up  into 
his  in  a  terror  of  joy.  Not  once  did  she  move 
them  to  right  or  left,  for  all  the  murmur  of  the 
people  about  them.  Nor  did  the  King  see  aught 
but  her  water-lily  face  as  they  wended  thus  in 
a  dream  through  the  crowded  streets,  and  at 
length  came  to  the  marble  steps  of  the  palace. 

Then  the  King,  leaping  from  his  horse,  took 
her  tenderly  in  his  arms  and  carried  her  lightly 
up  the  marble  steps.  Upon  the  topmost  step 
he  set  her  down,  and  taking  her  hand  in  his,  as 
she  stood  timidly  by  his  side,  he  turned  his  face 
to  the  multitude  and  spake. 

"Lo!  my  people,"  he  said,  "this  is  your  Queen, 
whom  God  has  sent  to  me  by  a  divine  miracle, 
to  rule  over  your  hearts  from  this  day  forth,  as 
she  holds  rule  over  mine.  My  people,  salute  your 
Queen!" 

And  therewith  the  King  knelt  on  one  knee  to 
his  beggar-maid  and  kissed  her  hand;  and  all  the 
people  knelt  likewise,  with  bowed  heads,  and  a 
great  cry  went  up. 

4  45 


THE    MAKER   OF    RAINBOWS 

"Our  Queen!    Our  Queen!" 

Then  the  King  and  Queen  passed  into  the  pal- 
ace, and  the  tiring-maids  led  the  little  beggar- 
maid  into  a  great  chamber  hung  with  tapestries 
and  furnished  with  many  mirrors,  and  they  took 
from  off  her  white  body  the  tattered  gown  she 
had  worn  in  the  forest,  and  robed  her  in  per- 
fumed linen  and  cloth  of  gold,  and  set  jewels  at 
her  throat  and  in  her  hair;  and  at  evening  in  the 
cathedral,  before  the  high  altar,  in  the  presence 
of  all  the  people,  the  King  placed  a  sapphire 
beautiful  as  the  evening  star  upon  her  finger, 
and  the  twain  became  man  and  wife;  and  the 
moon  rose  and  the  little  beggar-maid  was  a  Queen 
and  lay  in  a  great  King's  arms. 

On  the  morrow  the  King  summoned  a  famous 
worker  in  metals  attached  to  his  court,  and  com- 
manded him  to  make  a  beautiful  coffer  of  beaten 
gold,  in  which  to  place  the  little  ragged  robe  of 
his  beggar-maid;  for  it  was  very  sacred  to  him 
because  of  his  great  love.  After  due  time  the 
coffer  was  finished,  and  it  was  acclaimed  the 
masterpiece  of  the  great  artificer  who  had  made  it. 
About  its  sides  was  embossed  the  story  of  the 
King's  love.  On  one  side  was  the  pool  with  the 
water-lilies  and  the  beggar-maid  braiding  her 
hair  on  its  brink.    And  on  another  she  was  riding 

46 


RAGS    OF   QUEEN    COPHETUA 

on  horseback  with  the  King  through  the  forest. 
And  on  another  she  was  standing  by  his  side  on 
the  steps  of  the  palace  before  all  the  people. 
And  on  the  fourth  side  she  was  kneeling  by  the 
King's  side  before  the  high  altar  in  the  cathedral. 

The  King  placed  the  coffer  in  a  secret  gallery 
attached  to  the  royal  apartments,  and  very  ten- 
derly he  placed  therein  the  little  tattered  gown 
and  the  lute  with  which  his  Queen  was  wont  to 
wander  from  village  to  village  and  town  to  town, 
singing  her  little  songs. 

Often  at  evening,  when  his  heart  brimmed  over 
with  the  tenderness  of  his  love,  he  would  per- 
suade his  Queen  to  doff  her  beautiful  royal  gar- 
ments and  clothe  herself  again  in  that  little 
tattered  gown,  through  the  rents  of  which  her 
white  body  showed  whiter  than  any  water-lilies. 
And,  however  rich  or  exquisite  the  other  garments 
she  wore,  it  was  in  those  beloved  rags,  the  King 
declared,  that  she  looked  most  beautiful.  In 
them  he  loved  her  best. 

But  this  had  been  a  while  ago,  and  though,  as 
has  been  said,  the  King's  love  was  still  hers  as 
when  he  had  met  her  that  strange  morning  in 
the  forest,  and  though  every  day  he  brought  her 
a  new  and  priceless  jewel  to  hang  about  her  neck, 
or  wear  upon  her  moonbeam  hands,  or  to  shine 

47 


THE    MAKER   OF    RAINBOWS 

in  the  fragrant  night  of  her  hair,  it  was  many 
months  since  he  had  asked  her  to  wear  for  him 
the  little  tattered  gown. 

Was  the  miracle  of  their  love  beginning  to  lose 
a  little  of  its  wonder  for  him,  too ;  was  it  beginning 
to  take  its  place  among  the  accepted  realities  of  life? 

Sometimes  the  Queen  fancied  that  he  seemed 
a  little  impatient  with  her  elfin  bird-like  ways, 
as  though,  in  his  heart,  he  was  beginning  to  wish 
that  she  was  more  in  harmony  with  the  folk 
around  her,  more  like  the  worldly  court  ladies, 
with  their  great  manners  and  artificial  smiles. 
For,  though  she  had  now  been  a  Queen  a  long 
while,  she  had  never  changed.  She  was  still  the 
wild  gipsy-hearted  child  the  King  had  found 
braiding  her  hair  that  morning  by  the  lilied  pool. 

Often  she  would  steal  away  by  herself  and  enter 
that  secret  gallery,  and  lift  the  lid  of  the  golden 
coffer,  and  look  wistfully  at  the  little  tattered 
robe,  and  run  her  hands  over  the  cracked  strings 
of  her  little  lute. 

There  was  a  long  window  in  the  gallery,  from 
which,  far  away,  she  could  see  the  great  green 
cloud  of  the  forest;  and  as  the  days  went  by 
she  often  found  herself  seated  at  this  window, 
gazing  in  its  direction,  with  vague  unformed 
feelings  of  sadness  in  her  heart. 

48 


RAGS    OF    QUEEN    COPHETUA 

One  day,  as  she  sat  there  at  the  window,  an 
impulse  came  over  her  that  she  could  not  resist, 
and  swiftly  she  slipped  off  her  beautiful  garments, 
and  taking  the  little  robe  from  the  coffer,  clothed 
herself  in  the  rags  that  the  King  had  loved.  And 
she  took  the  old  lute  in  her  hands,  and  sang  low 
to  herself  her  old  wandering  songs.  And  she 
danced,  too,  an  elfin  dance,  all  alone  there  in 
the  still  gallery,  danced  as  the  apple-blossoms 
dance  on  the  spring  winds,  or  the  autumn  leaves 
dance  in  the  depths  of  the  forest. 

Suddenly  she  ceased  in  alarm.  The  King  had 
entered  the  gallery  unperceived,  and  was  watching 
her  with  sad  eyes. 

"Are  you  weary  of  being  a  Queen?"  said  he, 
sadly. 

For  answer  she  threw  herself  on  his  breast  and 
wept  bitterly,  she  knew  not  why. 

"Oh,  I  love  you!  I  love  you,"  she  sobbed, 
"but  this  life  is  not  real." 

And  the  King  went  from  her  with  a  heavy  heart. 

And  from  day  to  day  an  unspoken  sorrow  lay 
between  them;  and  from  day  to  day  the  King's 
words  haunted  the  Queen  with  a  more  insistent 
refrain : 

"Are  you  weary  of  being  a  Queen?" 

Was  she  weary  of  being  a  Queen? 
49 


THE    MAKER    OF    RAINBOWS 

And  so  the  days  went  by. 

One  day  as  the  Queen  passed  down  the  palace 
steps  she  came  upon  a  beautiful  girl,  clothed  in 
tatters  as  she  had  once  been,  seated  on  the  lowest 
step,  selling  flowers — water-lilies. 

The  Queen  stopped. 

"Where  did  you  gather  your  water-lilies,  child? " 
she  asked. 

' '  I  gathered  them  from  a  pool  in  the  great  forest 
yonder,"  answered  the  girl,  with  a  curtsey. 

"Give  me  one  of  them,"  said  the  Queen,  with 
a  sob  in  her  voice,  and  she  slipped  a  piece  of  gold 
into  the  girl's  hand,  and  fled  back  into  the  palace, 

That  night,  as  she  lay  awake  by  her  sleeping 
King,  she  rose  silently  and  stole  into  the  secret 
gallery.  There,  with  tears  running  down  her 
cheeks,  she  dressed  herself  in  the  little  tattered 
gown  and  took  the  lute  in  her  hand,  and  then 
stole  back  and  pressed  a  last  kiss  on  the  brow 
of  her  sleeping  King,  who  still  slept  on. 

But  at  sunrise  the  King  awoke,  with  a  sudden 
fear  in  his  heart,  and  lo!  where  his  Queen  had 
lain  was  only  a  white  water-lily. 

And  at  that  moment,  in  the  depths  of  the  for- 
est, a  beggar-maid  was  braiding  her  hair,  with  a 
pool  of  water-lilies  for  her  mirror. 

So 


THE   WIFE    FROM    FAIRY-LAND 


ER  talk  was  of  all  woodland 
things, 

Of  little  lives  that  pass 
Away  in  one  green  afternoon, 

Deep  in  the  haunted  grass. 


For  she  had  come  from  fairy-land, 

The  morning  of  a  day 
When  the  world  that  still  was  April 

Was  turning  into  May. 

Green  leaves  and  silence  and  two  eyes — 

'Twas  so  she  seemed  to  me; 
A  silver  shadow  of  the  woods, — 

Whisper  and  mystery. 

I  looked  into  her  woodland  eyes, 

And  all  my  heart  was  hers; 
And  then  I  led  her  by  the  hand 

Home  up  my  marble  stairs. 
5i 


THE    MAKER   OF    RAINBOWS 

And  all  my  granite  and  my  gold 
Was  hers  for  her  green  eyes, 

And  all  my  sinful  heart  was  hers, 
From  sunset  to  sunrise. 

I  gave  her  all  delight  and  ease 
That  God  had  given  to  me, 

I  listened  to  fulfil  her  dreams, 
Rapt  with  expectancy. 

But  all  I  gave  and  all  I  did 
Brought  but  a  weary  smile 

Of  gratitude  upon  her  face — 
As  though,  a  little  while, 

She  loitered  in  magnificence 

Of  marble  and  of  gold, 
And  waited  to  be  home  again, 

When  the  dull  tale  was  told. 

Sometimes,  in  the  chill  galleries, 
Unseen,  she  deemed,  unheard, 

I  found  her  dancing  like  a  leaf, 
And  singing  like  a  bird. 

So  lone  a  thing  I  never  saw 
In  lonely  earth  and  sky; 
52 


THE  WIFE   FROM   FAIRY-LAND 

So  merry  and  so  sad  a  thing — 
One  sad,  one  laughing,  eye. 

There  came  a  day  when  on  her  heart 

A  wild-wood  blossom  lay, 
And  the  world  that  still  was  April 

Was  turning  into  May. 

In  her  green  eyes  I  saw  a  smile 
That  turned  my  heart  to  stone, — 

My  wife  that  came  from  fairy-land 
No  longer  was  alone. 

For  there  had  come  a  little  hand 

To  show  the  green  way  home, 
Home  through  the  leaves,  home  through 
the  dew, 

Home  through  the  greenwood — home. 


THE    BUYER    OF    SORROWS 

\N  an  evening  of  singular  sunset, 
about  the  rich  beginning  of  May, 
the  little  market-town  of  Beethorpe 
was  startled  by  the  sound  of  a 
trumpet. 

Beethorpe  was  an  ancient  town,  mysteriously 
sown,  centuries  ago,  like  a  wandering  thistle-down 
of  human  life,  amid  the  silence  and  the  nibbling 
sheep  of  the  great  chalk  downs.  It  stood  in  a 
hollow  of  the  long  smooth  billows  of  pale  pasture 
that  suavely  melted  into  the  sky  on  every  side. 
The  evening  was  so  still  that  the  little  river  run- 
ning across  the  threshold  of  the  town,  and  en- 
circling what  remained  of  its  old  walls,  was  the 
noisiest  thing  to  be  heard,  dominating  with  its 
talkative  murmur  the  bedtime  hum  of  the  High 
Street. 

Suddenly,  as  the  flamboyance  of  the  sky  was 
on  the  edge  of  fading,  and  the  world  beginning 
to  wear  a  forlorn,  forgotten  look,  a  trumpet 
sounded  from  the  western  heights  above  the  town, 

54 


THE    BUYER    OF    SORROWS 

as  though  the  sunset  itself  had  spoken;  and  the 
people  in  Beethorpe,  looking  up,  saw  three  horse- 
men against  the  lurid  sky. 

Three  times  the  trumpet  blew. 

And  the  simple  folk  of  Beethorpe,  tumbling 
out  into  the  street  at  the  summons,  and  looking 
to  the  west  with  sleepy  bewilderment,  asked 
themselves:  Was  it  the  last  trumpet?  Or  was 
it  the  long-threatened  invasion  of  the  King  of 
France  ? 

Again  the  trumpet  blew,  and  then  the  braver 
of  the  young  men  of  the  town  hastened  up  the 
hill  to  learn  its  meaning. 

As  they  approached  the  horsemen,  they  perceived 
that  the  center  of  the  three  was  a  young  man 
of  great  nobility  of  bearing,  richly  but  somberly 
dressed,  and  with  a  dark,  beautiful  face  filled  with 
a  proud  melancholy.  He  kept  his  eyes  on  the 
fading  sunset,  sitting  motionless  upon  his  horse, 
apparently  oblivious  of  the  commotion  his  arrival 
had  caused.  The  horseman  on  his  right  hand 
was  clad  after  the  manner  of  a  herald,  and  the 
horseman  on  his  left  hand  was  clad  after  the 
manner  of  a  steward.  And  the  three  horsemen 
sat  motionless,  awaiting  the  bewildered  ambassa- 
dors of  Beethorpe. 

When  these  had  approached  near  enough  the 
55 


THE    MAKER    OF    RAINBOWS 

herald  once  more  set  the  trumpet  to  his  lips  and 
blew;  and  then,  unfolding  a  parchment  scroll, 
read  in  a  loud  voice: 

"To  the  Folk  of  Beethorpe  —  Greeting  from 
the  High  and  Mighty  Lord,  Mortimer  of  the 
Marches : 

"Whereas  our  heart  had  gone  out  toward  the 
sorrows  of  our  people  in  the  counties  and  towns 
and  villages  of  our  domain,  we  hereby  issue  proc- 
lamation that  whosoever  hath  a  sorrow,  let  him 
or  her  bring  it  forth;  and  we,  out  of  our  private 
purse,  will  purchase  the  said  sorrow,  according 
to  its  value — that  the  hearts  of  our  people  be 
lightened  of  their  burdens." 

And  when  the  herald  had  finished  reading  he 
blew  again  upon  the  trumpet  three  times;  and 
the  villagers  looked  at  one  another  in  bewilder- 
ment— but  some  ran  down  the  hill  to  tell  their 
neighbors  of  the  strange  proposal  of  their  lord. 
Thus,  presently,  nearly  all  the  village  of  Bee- 
thorpe was  making  its  way  up  the  hill  to  where 
those  three  horsemen  loomed  against  the  evening 
sky. 

Never  was  such  a  sorrowful  company.  Up  the 
hill  they  came,  carrying  their  sorrows  in  their 
hands — sorrows  for  which,  in  excited  haste,  they 
had  rummaged  old  drawers  and  forgotten  cup- 

56 


Tm?.   HKKUn    ONCE    MORE    SET   Till     TRUMPET   TO    III-    LIPS    AND    BLEW 


THE    BUYER    OF    SORROWS 

boards,  and  even  ran  hurriedly  into  the  church- 
yard. 

Lord  Mortimer  of  the  Marches  sat  his  horse 
with  the  same  austere  indifference,  his  melan- 
choly profile  against  the  fading  sky.  Only  those 
who  stood  near  to  him  noted  a  kindly  ironic 
flicker  of  a  smile  in  his  eyes,  as  he  saw,  apparently 
seeing  nothing,  the  poor  little  raked-up  sorrows 
of  his  village  of  Beethorpe. 

He  was  a  fantastic  young  lord  of  many  sorrows. 
His  heart  had  been  broken  in  a  very  strange 
way.  Death  and  Pity  were  his  closest  friends. 
He  was  so  sad  himself  that  he  had  come  to  realize 
that  sorrow  is  the  only  sincerity  of  life.  Thus 
sorrow  had  become  a  kind  of  passion  with  him, 
even  a  kind  of  connoisseurship ;  and  he  had  come, 
so  to  say,  to  be  a  collector  of  sorrows.  It  was 
partly  pity  and  partly  an  odd  form  of  dilettante- 
ism — for  his  own  sad  heart  made  him  pitiful  for 
and  companionable  with  any  other  sad  heart;  but 
the  sincerity  of  his  sorrow  made  him  jealous  of  the 
sanctity  of  sorrow,  and  at  the  same  time  sternly 
critical  of,  and  sadly  amused  by,  the  hypocrisies 
of  sorrow. 

So,  as  he  sat  his  horse  and  gazed  at  the  sunset, 
he  smiled  sadly  to  himself  as  he  heard,  without 
seeming  to  hear,  the  small,  insincere  sorrows  of 

57 


THE    MAKER   OF    RAINBOWS 

his  village  of  Beethorpe — sorrows  forgotten  long 
ago,  but  suddenly  rediscovered  in  old  drawers  and 
unopened  cupboards,  at  the  sound  of  his  lord- 
ship's trumpet  and  the  promise  of  his  strange 
proclamation. 

Was  there  a  sorrow  in  the  world  that  no  money 
could  buy? 

It  was  to  find  such  a  sorrow  that  Lord  Mortimer 
thus  fantastically  rode  from  village  to  village  of 
his  estates,  with  herald  and  steward. 

The  unpurchasable  sorrow — the  sorrow  no  gold 
can  gild,  no  jewel  can  buy! 

Far  and  wide  he  had  ridden  over  his  estates, 
seeking  so  rare  a  sorrow;  but  as  yet  he  had  found 
no  sorrow  that  could  not  be  bought  with  a  little 
bag  of  gold  and  silver  coins. 

So  he  sat  his  horse,  while  the  villagers  of  Bee- 
thorpe were  paid  out  of  a  great  leathern  bag  by 
the  steward — for  the  steward  understood  the  mind 
of  his  master,  and,  without  troubling  him,  paid  each 
weeping  and  whimpering  peasant  as  he  thought  fit. 

In  another  great  bag  the  steward  had  collected 
the  sorrows  of  the  village  of  Beethorpe;  and,  by 
this,  the  moon  was  rising,  and,  with  another 
blast  of  trumpet  by  way  of  farewell,  the  three 
horsemen  took  the  road  again  to  Lord  Mor- 
timer's castle. 

58 


THE    BUYER    OF    SORROWS 

When,  out  of  the  great  leathern  bag,  in  Lord 
Mortimer's  cabinet  they  poured  upon  the  table 
the  sorrows  of  Beethorpe,  the  young  lord  smiled 
to  himself,  turning  over  one  sorrow  after  the 
other,  as  though  they  had  been  precious  stones — 
for  there  was  not  one  genuine  sorrow  among  them. 

But,  later,  there  came  news  to  him  that  there 
was  one  real  sorrow  in  Beethorpe;  and  he  rode 
alone  on  horseback  to  the  village,  and  found  a 
beautiful  girl  laying  flowers  on  a  grave.  She  was 
so  beautiful  that  he  forgot  his  ancient  grief,  and 
he  thought  that  all  his  castles  would  be  but  a 
poor  exchange  for  her  face. 

"Maiden,"  said  he,  "let  me  buy  your  sorrow 
— with  three  counties  and  seven  castles." 

And  the  girl  looked  up  at  him  from  the  grave, 
writh  eyes  of  forget-me-not,  and  said:  "My  lord, 
you  mistake.  This  is  not  sorrow.  It  is  my  only 
joy." 


THE    PRINCESS'S    MIRROR 

^HE  sun  was  scarcely  risen,  but  the 
young  princess  was  already  seated 
by  her  window.  Never  did  window 
open  upon  a  scene  of  such  enchant- 
ment. Never  has  the  dawn  risen 
over  so  fair  a  land.  Meadows  so  fresh  and  grass 
so  green,  rivers  of  such  mystic  silver  and  far 
mountains  so  majestically  purple,  no  eye  has  seen 
outside  of  Paradise;  and  over  all  was  now  out- 
spread the  fairy-land  of  the  morning  sky. 

Even  a  princess  might  rise  early  to  behold  so 
magic  a  spectacle. 

Yet,  strangely  enough,  it  was  not  upon  this 
miracle  that  the  eyes  of  the  princess  were  gazing. 
In  fact,  she  seemed  entirely  oblivious  of  it  all — 
oblivious  of  all  that  was  passing  in  the  sky,  and 
of  all  the  dewy  awakening  of  the  earth. 

Her  eyes  were  lost  in  a  trance  over  what  she 
deemed  a  rarer  beauty,  a  stranger  marvel.  The 
princess  was  gazing  at  her  own  face  in  a  golden 
mirror. 

60 


HER    ONL\    t    \KI.    U  \-<    fO    GAZE    All.    LAN     Al     lll-.k    OWN    I   V<  I 


THE    PRINCESS'S    MIRROR 

And  indeed  it  was  a  beautiful  face  that  she  saw 
there,  so  beautiful  that  the  princess  might  well 
be  pardoned  for  thinking  it  the  most  beautiful 
face  in  the  world.  So  fascinated  had  she  become 
by  her  own  beauty  that  she  carried  her  mirror 
eVer  at  her  girdle,  and  gazed  at  it  night  and  day. 
Whenever  she  saw  another  beautiful  thing  she 
looked  in  her  mirror  and  smiled  to  herself. 

She  had  looked  at  the  most  beautiful  rose  in 
the  world,  and  then  she  had  looked  in  her  mirror 
and  said,  "I  am  more  beautiful." 

She  had  looked  at  the  morning  star,  and  then 
she  had  looked  in  her  mirror  and  said,  "I  am 
more  beautiful." 

She  had  looked  at  the  rising  moon,  and  then 
she  had  looked  in  her  mirror  and  still  she  said, 
"I  am  more  beautiful." 

Whenever  she  heard  of  a  beautiful  face  in  her 
kingdom  she  caused  it  to  be  brought  before  her, 
and  then  she  looked  in  her  mirror,  and  always 
she  smiled  to  herself  and  said,  "I  am  more  beau- 
tiful." 

Thus  it  had  come  about  that  her  only  care  was 
to  gaze  all  day  at  her  own  face.  So  enamored 
had  she  become  of  it,  that  she  hated  even  to 
sleep;  but  not  even  in  sleep  did  she  lose  the 
beautiful  face  she  loved,  for  it  was  still  there  in 

5  61 


THE    MAKER   OF    RAINBOWS 

the  mirror  of  dreams.  Yet  often  she  would  wake 
in  the  night  to  gaze  at  it,  and  always  she  arose 
at  dawn  that,  with  the  first  rays  of  the  sun, 
she  might  look  into  her  mirror.  Thus,  from  the 
rising  sun  to  the  setting  moon,  she  would  sit  at 
her  window,  and  never  take  her  eyes  from  those 
beautiful  eyes  that  looked  back  at  her,  and  the 
longest  day  in  the  year  was  not  long  enough  to 
return  their  gaze. 

This  particular  morning  was  a  morning  in 
May — all  bloom  and  song,  and  crowding  leaves 
and  thickening  grass.  The  valley  was  a  mist  of 
blossom,  and  the  air  thrilled  with  the  warbling 
of  innumerable  birds.  Soft  dewy  scents  floated 
hither  and  thither  on  the  wandering  breeze.  But 
the  princess  took  no  note  of  these  things,  lost 
in  the  dream  of  her  face,  and  saw  the  changes 
of  the  dawn  only  as  they  were  reflected  in  her 
mirror  and  suffused  her  beauty  with  their  rainbow 
tints.  So  rapt  in  her  dream  was  she  that,  when  a 
bird  alighted  near  at  hand  and  broke  into  sudden 
song,  she  was  so  startled  that — the  mirror  slipped 
from  her  hand. 

Now  the  princess's  window  was  in  the  wall  of 
an  old  castle  built  high  above  the  valley,  and 
beneath  it  the  ground  sloped  precipitately,  cov- 
ered  with   underbrush   and   thick   grasses,    to   a 

62 


THE    PRINCESS'S    MIRROR 

highroad  winding  far  beneath.  As  the  mirror 
slipped  from  the  hand  of  the  princess  it  fell  among 
this  underbrush  and  rolled,  glittering,  down  the 
slope,  till  the  princess  finally  lost  sight  of  it  in 
a  belt  of  wild  flowers  overhanging  the  highroad. 
As  it  finally  disappeared,  she  screamed  so  loudly 
that  the  ladies-in-waiting  ran  to  her  in  alarm, 
and  servants  were  instantly  sent  forth  to  search 
for  the  lost  mirror.  It  was  a  very  beautiful 
mirror,  the  work  of  a  goldsmith  famous  for  his 
fantastic  masterpieces  in  the  precious  metals. 
The  fancy  he  had  skilfully  embodied  was  that 
of  beauty  as  the  candle  attracting  the  moths. 
The  handle  of  the  mirror,  which  was  of  ivory, 
represented  the  candle,  the  golden  flame  of  which 
swept  round  in  a  circle  to  hold  the  crystal.  Wrought 
here  and  there,  on  the  golden  back  of  the  mirror, 
were  moths  with  wings  of  enamel  and  precious 
stones.  It  was  a  marvel  of  the  goldsmith's  art, 
and  as  such  was  beyond  price.  Yet  it  was  not 
merely  for  this,  as  we  know,  that  the  princess 
loved  it,  but  because  it  had  been  so  long  the 
intimate  of  her  beauty.  For  this  reason  it  had 
become  sacred  in  her  eyes,  and,  as  she  watched 
it  roll  down  the  hillside,  she  realized  that  it  had 
gained  for  her  also  a  superstitious  value.  It 
almost  seemed  as  if  to  lose  it  would  be  to  lose 

63 


THE    MAKER   OF    RAINBOWS 

her  beauty  too.  She  ran  to  another  mirror  in 
panic.  No!  her  beauty  still  remained.  But  no 
other  mirror  could  ever  be  to  her  like  the  mirror 
she  had  lost.  So,  forgetting  her  beauty  for  a 
moment,  she  wept  and  tore  her  hair  and  beat 
her  tiring-maids  in  her  misery ;  and  when  the  men 
returned  from  their  searching  without  the  mirror, 
she  gave  orders  to  have  them  soundly  flogged 
for  their  failure. 

Meanwhile  the  mirror  rested  peacefully  among 
the  wild  flowers  and  the  humming  of  bees. 

A  short  while  after  the  serving-men  had  been 
flogged  and  the  tiring-maids  had  been  beaten, 
there  came  along  the  white  road  at  the  foot  of 
the  castle  a  tired  minstrel.  He  was  singing  to 
himself  out  of  the  sadness  of  his  heart.  He 
was  forty  years  old,  and  the  exchange  that  life 
had  given  him  for  his  dreams  had  not  seemed 
to  him  a  fair  equivalent.  He  had  even  grown 
weary  of  his  own  songs. 

He  sat,  dejected,  amid  the  green  grasses,  and 
looked  up  at  the  ancient  heaven — and  thought 
to  himself.  Then  suddenly  he  turned  his  tired 
eyes  again  to  earth,  and  saw  the  daisies  growing 
there,  and  the  butterflies  flitting  from  flower  to 
flower.  And  the  road,  as  he  looked  at  it,  seemed 
long — longer  than  ever.     He  took  his  old  lute 

64 


THE    PRINCESS'S    MIRROR 

in  his  hand— wondering  to  himself  if  they  could 
play  another  tune.  They  were  so  in  love  with 
each  other— and  so  tired  of  each  other. 

He  played  one  of  his  old  songs,  of  which  he 
was  heartily  weary,  and,  as  he  played,  the  butter- 
flies flitted  about  him  and  filled  his  old  hair  with 
blue  wings. 

He  was  forty  years  old  and  very  weary.  He 
was  alone.  His  last  nightingale  had  ceased  sing- 
ing. The  time  had  come  for  him  when  one  thinks, 
and  even  dreams,  of  the  fireside,  the  hearth,  and 
the  beautiful  old  memories. 

He  had,  in  short,  arrived  at  that  period  of  life 
when  one  begins  to  perceive  the  beauty  of 
money. 

As  a  boy  he  had  never  given  a  thought  to 
gold  or  silver.  A  butterfly  had  seemed  more 
valuable  to  him  than  a  gold  piece.  But  he  was 
growing  old,  and,  as  I  have  said,  he  was  beginning 
to  perceive  the  beauty  of  money. 

The  daisies  were  all  around  him,  and  the  lark 
was  singing  up  there  in  the  sky.  But  how  could 
he  cash  a  daisy  or  negotiate  a  lark? 

Dreams,  after  all,  were  dreams.  ...  He  was 
saying  this  to  himself,  when  suddenly  his  eye 
fell  upon  the  princess's  mirror,  lying  there  in 
the   grass— so   covered   with   butterflies,    looking 

65 


THE    MAKER    OF    RAINBOWS 

at  themselves,  that  no  wonder  the  serving-men 
had  been  unable  to  find  it. 

The  mirror  of  the  princess,  as  I  have  said,  was 
made  of  gold  and  ivory,  and  wonderful  crystal 
and  many  precious  stones. 

So,  when  the  minstrel  took  it  in  his  hands 
out  of  the  grass,  he  thought — well,  that  he  might 
at  least  buy  a  breakfast  at  the  next  town.  For 
he  was  very  hungry. 

Well,  he  caught  up  the  mirror  and  hid  it  in 
his  faded  doublet,  and  took  his  way  to  a  wood 
of  living  green,  and  when  he  was  alone — that  is, 
alone  with  a  few  flowers  and  a  bird  or  two,  and 
a  million  leaves,  and  the  soft  singing  of  a  little 
river  hiding  its  music  under  many  boughs — he 
took  out  the  mirror  from  his  doublet. 

Shame  upon  him!  he,  a  poet  of  the  rainbow, 
had  only  one  thought  as  he  took  up  the  mirror — 
the  gold  and  ivory  and  the  precious  stones.  He 
was  merely  thinking  of  them  and  his  breakfast. 

But  when  he  looked  into  the  mirror,  expecting 
to  see  his  own  ancient  face — what  did  he  see? 
He  saw  something  so  beautiful  that,  just  like 
the  princess,  he  dropped  the  mirror.  Have  you 
ever  seen  the  wild  rose  as  it  opens  its  heart  to 
the  morning  sky ;  have  you  ever  seen  the  hawthorn 
holding    in    its    fragrant    arms    its    innumerable 

66 


THE    PRINCESS'S    MIRROR 

blooms;  have  you  seen  the  rising  of  the  moon, 
or  looked  in  the  face  of  the  morning  star? 

The  minstrel  looked  in  the  mirror  and  saw  some- 
thing far  more  wonderful  than  all  these  wonderful 
things. 

He  saw  the  face  of  the  princess — eternally  re- 
flected there;  for  her  love  of  her  own  beautiful 
face  had  turned  the  mirror  into  a  magic  glass. 
To  worship  oneself  is  the  only  way  to  make  a 
beautiful  face. 

And  as  the  minstrel  looked  into  the  mirror  he 
sadly  realized  that  he  could  never  bring  himself 
to  sell  it — and  that  he  must  go  without  his  break- 
fast. The  moon  had  fallen  into  his  hand  out  of 
the  sky.  Could  he,  a  poet,  exchange  this  celestial 
windfall  for  a  meal  and  a  new  doublet?  As  the 
minstrel  gazed  and  gazed  at  the  beautiful  face, 
he  understood  that  he  could  no  more  sell  the 
mirror  than  he  could  sell  his  own  soul — and,  in 
his  pilgrimage  through  the  world,  he  had  re- 
ceived many  offers  for  his  soul.  Also,  many 
kings  and  captains  had  vainly  tried  to  buy  from 
him  his  gift  of  courage. 

But  the  minstrel  had  sold  neither.  And  now 
had  fallen  out  of  the  sky  one  more  precious  thing 
to  guard — the  most  beautiful  face  in  the  world. 
So,  as  he  gazed  in  the  mirror,  he  forgot  his  hunger, 

67 


THE    MAKER   OF    RAINBOWS 

forgot  his  faded  doublet,  forgot  the  long  sorrow 
of  his  days — and  at  length  there  came  the  setting 
sun.  Suddenly  the  minstrel  awoke  from  his 
dream  at  the  sound  of  horsemen  in  the  valley. 
The  princess  was  sending  heralds  into  every  cor- 
ner of  her  dominions  to  proclaim  the  loss  of  the 
mirror,  and  for  its  return  a  beautiful  reward — a 
lock  of  her  strange  hair. 

The  minstrel  hid  himself,  with  his  treasure, 
amid  the  fern,  and,  when  the  trumpets  had  faded 
in  the  distance,  found  the  highroad  again  and 
went  upon  his  way. 

Now  it  chanced  that  a  scullery-maid  of  the 
castle,  as  she  was  polishing  a  copper  saucepan, 
had  lifted  her  eyes  from  her  work,  and,  looking 
down  toward  the  highroad,  had  seen  the  minstrel 
pick  up  the  mirror.  He  was  a  very  well  known 
minstrel.  All  the  scullery-maids  and  all  the 
princesses  had  his  songs  by  heart. 

Even  the  birds  were  fabled  to  sing  his  songs, 
as  they  flitted  to  and  fro  on  their  airy  busi- 
ness. 

Thus,  through  the  little  scullery-maid,  it  be- 
came known  to  the  princess  that  the  mirror  had 
been  found  by  the  wandering  minstrel,  and  so 
his  life  became  a  life  of  peril.  Bandits,  hoping 
for  the  reward  of  that  lock  of  strange  hair,  hunted 

68 


THE    PRINCESS'S    MIRROR 

him  through  the  woodland,  across  the  marshes, 
and  over  the  moors. 

Jews  with  great  money-bags  came  to  buy  from 
him — the  beautiful  face.  Sometimes  he  had  to 
climb  up  into  trees  to  look  at  it  in  the  sunrise, 
the  woods  were  so  filled  with  the  voices  of  his 
pursuers. 

But  neither  hunger,  nor  poverty,  nor  small 
ferocious  enemies  were  able  to  take  from  him  the 
beautiful  face.  It  never  left  his  heart.  All  night 
long  and  all  the  watching  day  it  was  pressed  close 
to  his  side. 

Meanwhile  the  princess  was  in  despair.  More 
and  more  the  fancy  possessed  her  that  with  the 
lost  mirror  her  beauty  too  was  lost.  In  her  un- 
happiness,  like  all  sad  people,  she  took  strange 
ways  of  escape.  She  consulted  the  stars,  and 
empirics  from  the  four  winds  settled  down  upon 
her  castle.  Each,  of  course,  had  his  own  inval- 
uable nostrum;  and  all  went  their  way.  For  not 
one  of  these  understood  the  heart  of  a  poet. 

However,  at  last  there  came  to  the  aid  of  the 
princess  a  reverend  old  man  of  ninety  years,  a 
famous  seer,  deeply  and  gently  and  pitifully 
learned  in  the  hearts  of  men.  His  was  that  wisdom 
which  comes  of  great  goodness.  He  understood 
the  princess,  and  he  understood  the  minstrel;  for, 

69 


THE    MAKER    OF    RAINBOWS 

having  lived  so  long  alone  with  the  Infinite,  he 
understood  the  Finite. 

To  him  the  princess  was  as  a  little  child,  and 
his  old  wise  heart  went  out  to  her. 

And,  as  I  have  said,  his  heart  understood  the 
minstrel  too. 

Therefore  he  said  to  the  princess:  "I  know  the 
hearts  of  poets.  In  seven  days  I  will  bring  you 
back  your  mirror." 

And  the  old  man  went,  and  at  length  found 
the  poet  eating  wild  berries  in  the  middle  of  the 
wood. 

"That  is  a  beautiful  mirror  you  have  by  your 
side,"  said  the  old  man. 

"This  mirror,"  answered  the  poet,  "holds  in 
its  deeps  the  most  beautiful  face  in  the  world." 

"It  is  true,"  said  the  wise  old  man.  "I  have 
seen  the  beautiful  face  .  .  .  but  I  too  possess  a 
mirror.     Will  you  look  into  it?" 

And  the  poet  took  the  mirror  from  the  old  man 
and  looked;  and,  as  he  looked,  the  mirror  of  the 
princess  fell  neglected  in  the  grass.  .  .  . 

"Why,"  said  the  wise  old  man,  "do  you  let  fall 
the  princess's  mirror?" 

But  the  poet  made  no  answer — for  his  eyes 
were  lost  in  the  strange  mirror  which  the  wise 
old  man  had  brought  him. 

70 


THE    PRINCESS'S    MIRROR 

"What  do  you  see  in  the  mirror,"  said  the  old 
man,  "that  you  gaze  so  earnestly  in  it?" 

"I  see,"  answered  the  minstrel,  "the  infinite 
miracle  of  the  universe,  I  see  the  august  and 
lonely  elements,  I  see  the  solitary  stars  and  the 
untiring  sea,  I  see  the  everlasting  hills— and,  as 
a  crocus  raises  its  rainbow  head  from  the  black 
earth  in  springtime,  I  see  the  young  moon  grow- 
ing like  a  slender  flower  out  of  the  mountains.  ..." 

"Yet,  look  again,"  said  the  old  man,  "into  this 
other  mirror,  the  mirror  of  the  princess.  Look 
again." 

And  the  poet  looked — taking  the  two  mirrors 
in  his  hands,  and  looking  from  one  to  the  other. 

"At  last,"  he  said,  gazing  into  the  face  he  had 
fought  so  long  to  keep — "at  last  I  understand 
that  this  is  but  a  fleeting  phantom  of  beauty,  a 
fluttering  flower  of  a  face — just  one  beautiful 
flower  in  the  innumerable  meadows  of  the  In- 
finite— but  here  ..." 

And  he  turned  to  the  other  mirror — 

"Here  is  the  Eternal  Beauty,  the  Divine  Har- 
mony, the  Sacred  Unfathomable  All.  .  .  .  Would 
a  man  be  content  with  one  rose,  when  all  the  roses    j 
of  all  the  rose-gardens  of  the  world  were  his?  ..." 

"You  mean,"  said  the  wise  old  man,  smiling 
to  himself,    "that   I  may  take  the  mirror  back 

71 


THE    MAKER    OF    RAINBOWS 

to  the  princess.  .  .  .  Are  you  really  willing  to  ex- 
change her  face  for  the  face  of  the  sky  ? ' ' 

"I  am,"  answered  the  minstrel. 

"I  knew  you  were  a  poet,"  said  the  sage. 

"And  I  know  that  you  are  very  wise,"  an- 
swered the  minstrel. 

Yet,  after  all,  the  princess  was  not  so  happy  to 
have  her  mirror  back  again  as  she  had  expected 
to  be;  for  had  not  a  wandering  poet  found  some- 
thing more  beautiful  than  her  face! 


THE    PINE    LADY 

HAVE  you  seen  the  Pine  Lady, 
Or  heard  her  how  she  sings? 
Have  you  heard  her  play 
Your  soul  away 

On  a  harp  with  moonbeam  strings? 
In  a  palace  all  of  the  night-black  pine 

iShe  hides  like  a  queen  all  day, 
Till  a  moonbeam  knocks 
On  her  secret  tree, 
And  she  opens  her  door 
With  a  silver  key, 
While  the  village  clocks 
Are  striking  bed 
Nine  times  sleepily. 

O  come  and  hear  the  Pine  Lady 

Up  in  the  haunted  wood! 

The  stars  are  rising,  the  moths  are  flitting, 

The  owls  are  calling, 

The  dew  is  falling; 

73 


THE    MAKER   OF    RAINBOWS 

And,  high  in  the  boughs 

Of  her  haunted  house, 

The  moon  and  she  are  sitting. 

Out  on  the  moor  the  night-jar  drones 

Rough-throated  love, 

The  beetle  comes 

With  his  sudden  drums, 

And  many  a  silent  unseen  thing 

Frightens  your  cheek  with  its  ghostly  wing; 

While  there  above, 

In  a  palace  builded  of  needles  and  cones, 

The  pine  is  telling  the  moon  her  love, 

Telling  her  love  on  the  moonbeam  strings — 

O  have  you  seen  the  Pine  Lady, 

Or  heard  her  how  she  sings? 


THE    KING    ON    HIS    WAY    TO 
BE    CROWNED 


?|X  a  green  outlying  corner  of  the 
|»  kingdom  of  Bohemia,  one  summer 
^£  afternoon,  the  Grand  Duke  Stanis- 
|3  laus  was  busy  in  his  garden,  swarm- 
^§|=3!^g§§»  ing  a  hive  of  bees.  He  was  a  tall, 
middle-aged  man  of  a  scholarly,  almost  priest- 
like, type,  a  gentle-mannered  recluse,  living  only 
in  his  books  and  his  garden,  and  much  loved  by 
the  country-folk  for  the  simple  kindness  of  his 
heart.  He  had  the  most  winning  of  smiles,  and 
a  playful  wisdom  radiated  from  his  wise,  rather 
weary  eyes.  No  man  had  ever  heard  him  utter 
a  harsh  word;  and,  indeed,  life  passed  so  tran- 
quilly in  that  green  corner  of  Bohemia  that 
even  less  peaceful  natures  found  it  hard  to  be 
angry.     There  was  so  little  to  be  angry  about. 

Therefore,  it  was  all  the  stranger  to  see  the 
good  duke  suddenly  lose  his  temper  this  summer 
afternoon. 

"Preposterous!"  he  exclaimed;  "was  there  ever 
75 


THE    MAKER   OF    RAINBOWS 

anything  quite  so  preposterous!  To  think  of 
interrupting  me,  at  such  a  moment,  with  such 
news!" 

He  spoke  from  inside  a  veil  of  gauze  twisted 
about  his  head,  after  the  manner  of  beekeepers; 
and  was,  indeed,  just  at  that  moment,  engaged 
in  the  delicate  operation  of  transferring  a  new 
swarm  to  another  hive. 

The  necessity  of  keeping  his  mind  on  his  task 
somewhat  restored  his  calm. 

"Give  the  messenger  refreshment,"  he  said, 
"and  send  for  Father  Scholasticus." 

Father  Scholasticus  was  the  priest  of  the  village, 
and  the  duke's  very  dear  friend. 

The  reason  for  this  explosion  was  the  news, 
brought  by  swiftest  courier,  that  Duke  Stanislaus' 
brother  was  dead,  and  that  he  himself  was  thus 
become  King  of  Bohemia. 

By  the  time  Father  Scholasticus  arrived,  the 
bees  were  housed  in  their  new  home,  and  the 
duke  was  seated  in  his  library,  among  the  books 
that  he  loved  no  less  than  his  bees,  with  various 
important-looking  parchments  spread  out  before 
him:  despatches  of  state  brought  to  him  by  the 
courier,  which  he  had  been  scanning  with  great 
impatience. 

"I  warn  you,  my  friend,"  he  said,  looking  up 
76 


ON   HIS   WAY   TO    BE    CROWNED 

as  the  good  father  entered,  "that  you  will  find 
me  in  a  very  bad  temper.  Ferdinand  is  dead — 
can  you  imagine  anything  more  unreasonable  of 
him?  He  was  always  the  most  inconsiderate  of 
mortals;  and  now,  without  the  least  warning,  he 
shuffles  his  responsibilities  upon  my  shoulders." 

The  priest  knew  his  friend  and  the  way  of  his 
thought,  and  he  could  not  help  smiling  at  his 
quaint  petulance. 

"Which  means  that  you  are  King  of  Bohemia 
.  .  .  sire!"  said  he,  with  a  half -whimsical  reverence. 
Where  on  earth — he  was  wondering — was  there 
another  man  who  would  be  so  put  out  at  being 
made  a  king? 

' '  Exactly, ' '  answered  the  duke.  ' '  Do  you  wonder 
that  I  am  out  of  temper?  You  must  give  me 
your  advice.  There  must  be  some  way  out  of  it. 
What— what  am  I  to  do?" 

' '  I  am  afraid  there  is  nothing  for  you  to  do  but 
— reign  .  .  .  your  Majesty,"  answered  the  priest. 
"I  agree  with  you  that  it  is  a  great  hardship." 

"Do  you  really  understand  how  great  a  hard- 
ship it  is?"  retorted  the  king  to  his  friend.  "Will 
you  share  it  with  me?" 

"Share  it  with  you?"  asked  the  priest. 

"Yes!  as  it  appears  that  I  must  consent  to  be 
Head  of  the  World  Temporal — will  you  consent 

6  77 


THE    MAKER    OF    RAINBOWS 

to  be  the  Head  of  the  World  Spiritual?  In 
short,  will  you  consent  to  be  Archbishop  of  Bo- 
hemia?" 

"Leave  the  little  church  that  I  love,  and  the 
kind,  simple  hearts  in  my  care,  given  into  my 
keeping  by  the  goodness  of  God  ..."  asked  the 
priest. 

"To  be  the  spiritual  shepherd,"  answered  the 
king,  not  without  irony,  "of  the  sad  flocks  of 
souls  that  wander,  without  pastor,  the  strange 
streets  of  lost  cities  ..." 

The  king  paused,  and  added,  with  his  sad,  under- 
standing smile,  "and  to  sit  on  a  gold  throne,  in  a 
great  cathedral,  filled  with  incense  and  colored 
windows." 

And  the  priest  smiled  back;  for  the  king  and 
the  priest  were  old  friends  and  understood  and 
loved  each  other. 

At  that  moment  there  came  a  sound  of  trum- 
pets through  the  quiet  boughs,  and  the  priest, 
rising  and  looking  through  the  window,  saw  a  pro- 
cession of  gilded  carriages,  from  the  first  of  which 
stepped  out  a  dignified  man  with  white  hair  and 
many  years,  and  robed  in  purple  and  ermine. 

"It  is  your  Prime  Minister,  and  your  court," 
answered  the  priest  to  the  mute  question  of  the 
king.     And  again  they  smiled  together;  but  the 

73 


ON    HIS    WAY   TO    BE   CROWNED 

smile  on  the  face  of  the  king  was  weary  beyond 
all  human  words:  because  of  all  the  perils  that 
beset  a  man,  the  one  peril  he  had  feared  was  the 
peril  of  being  made  a  king,  of  all  the  sorrows  that 
sorrow,  of  all  the  foolishness  that  foolishness;  for 
vanity  had  long  since  passed  away  from  his 
heart,  and  the  bees  and  the  blossoms  of  his 
garden  seemed  just  as  worthy  of  his  care  as  that 
swarming  hive  of  ambitious  human  wasps  and 
earwigs  over  which  he  was  thus  summoned  by 
sound  of  trumpet,  that  happy  summer  afternoon — 
to  be  the  king.  Think  of  being  the  king  of  so 
foul  a  kingdom — when  one  might  be  the  king — 
of  a  garden. 

But  in  spite  of  his  reluctance,  the  good  duke 
at  length  admitted  the  truth  urged  upon  him  by 
the  good  priest — that  there  are  sacred  duties  in- 
herited by  those  born  in  high  places  and  to  noble 
destinies  from  which  there  is  no  honorable  escape, 
and,  on  the  priest  agreeing  to  be  the  Archbishop 
of  Bohemia,  he  resigned  himself  j  being  its  king. 
Thereupon  he  received  all  the  various  dignitaries 
and  functionaries  that  could  so  little  have  under- 
stood his  heart — having  in  the  interval  recovered 
his  lost  temper — with  all  the  graciousness  for  which 
he  was  famous,  and  appointed  a  day — as  far  off 
as  possible — when  he  would  set  out,  with  all  his 

79 


THE    MAKER   OF    RAINBOWS 

train,  for  his  coronation  in  the  capital,  a  journey 
of  many  leagues. 

However,  when  the  day  came,  and,  in  fact,  at 
the  very  moment  of  the  starting  out  of  the  long 
and  glittering  cortege,  all  the  gilded  carriages 
were  suddenly  brought  to  a  halt  by  news  coming 
to  the  duke  of  the  sickness  and  imminent  death 
of  a  much  loved  dependent  of  his,  an  old  shep- 
herd with  whom  as  a  boy  he  was  wont  to  wander 
the  hills,  and  listen  eagerly  to  the  lore  of  times 
and  seasons,  of  rising  and  setting  stars,  and  of 
the  ways  of  the  winds,  which  are  hidden  in  the 
hearts  of  tanned  and  withered  old  men,  who  have 
spent  their  lives  out-of-doors  under  sun  and  rain. 

But,  to  the  great  impatience  of  the  court  ladies 
and  the  great  bewigged  and  powdered  gentlemen, 
the  old  shepherd  lived  on  for  several  days,  during 
which  time  the  duke  was  constantly  at  his  side. 
At  last,  however,  the  old  shepherd  went  to  his 
rest,  and  the  procession,  which  he,  humble  soul, 
would  not  have  believed  that  he  could  have  de- 
layed, started  on  its  magnificent  way  again,  with 
flutter  of  pennant  and  feather  and  song  of  trum- 
pet and  ladies'  laughter. 

But  it  had  traveled  only  a  few  leagues  when 
it  was  again  brought  to  a  standstill  by  the  duke — 
who   was   thus  progressing  to  his  coronation — 

80 


ON    HIS    WAY   TO    BE   CROWNED 

catching  sight  from  his  carriage  window,  as  it 
flitted  past,  of  an  extremely  lovely  and  uncommon 
butterfly.  The  duke  had,  all  his  days,  been  a 
passionate  entomologist,  and  this  particular  butter- 
fly was  the  one  that  so  far  he  had  been  unable  to 
add  to  his  collection.  Therefore  he  commanded 
the  trumpets  to  call  a  halt,  and  had  his  butterfly- 
net  brought  to  him;  and  he  and  several  of  his 
gentlemen  went  in  pursuit  of  the  flitting  painted 
thing;  but  not  that  day,  nor  the  next,  was  it 
captured  in  the  royal  net,  not,  in  fact,  till  a  whole 
week  had  gone  by;  and  meanwhile  the  carriages 
stood  idly  in  the  stables,  and  the  postilions 
kicked  their  heels,  and  the  great  ladies  and 
gentlemen  fumed  at  their  enforced  exile  amid 
country  ways  and  country  freshness,  pining  to 
be  back  once  more  in  that  artificial  world  where 
alone  they  could  breathe. 

"To  think  of  a  man  chasing  a  butterfly — with 
a  king's  crown  awaiting  him — and  even  perhaps  a 
kingdom  at  stake!"  said  many  a  tongue — for 
rumors  came  on  the  wind  that  a  half-brother  of 
the  dead  king  was  meditating  usurpation  of  the 
throne,  and  was  already  gathering  a  large  follow- 
ing about  him.  Urgent  despatches  were  said  to 
have  come  from  the  imperial  city  begging  that  his 
Majesty,  for  the  good  of  his  loyal  subjects,  con- 

81 


THE    MAKER   OF    RAINBOWS 

tinue  his   journey   with  all  possible  expedition. 
His  kingdom  was  at  stake! 

The  good  duke  smiled  on  the  messenger  and 
said,  "Yes!  but  look  at  my  butterfly — "  and  no 
one  but  his  friend  the  priest,  of  course,  had 
understood.  Murmurs  began  to  arise,  indeed, 
among  the  courtiers,  and  hints  of  plots  even,  as 
the  duke  pursued  his  leisurely  journey,  turning 
aside  for  each  wayward  fancy. 

One  day  it  would  be  a  turtle  crossing  the  road, 
with  her  little  ones,  which  would  bring  to  a  re- 
spectful halt  all  those  beautiful  gold  coaches  and 
caracoling  horses.  Tenderly  would  the  good  duke 
step  from  his  carriage  and  watch  her  with  his 
gentle  smile — not,  doubtless,  without  sly  laughter 
in  his  heart,  and  an  understanding  glance  from 
the  priest,  that  so  humble  and  helpless  a  creature 
should  for  once  have  it  in  its  power  thus  to  delay 
so  much  worldly  pomp  and  vanity. 

On  another  occasion,  when  they  had  journeyed 
for  a  whole  day  without  any  such  fanciful  inter- 
ruptions, and  the  courtiers  began  to  think  that 
they  would  reach  the  imperial  city  at  last,  the 
duke  decided  to  turn  aside  several  long  leagues 
out  of  their  course,  to  visit  the  grave  of  a  great 
poet  whose  songs  were  one  of  the  chief  glories  of 
his  land. 

82 


ON    HIS    WAY   TO    BE   CROWNED 

"I  may  have  no  other  opportunity  to  do  him 
honor,"  said  the  duke. 

And  when  his  advisers  ventured  to  protest,  and 
even  to  murmur,  urging  the  increasing  jeopardy 
of  his  crown,  he  gently  admonished  them: 

"Poets  are  greater  than  kings,"  he  said,  "and 
what  is  my  poor  crown  compared  with  that  crown 
of  laurel  which  he  wears  forever  among  the  im- 
mortals?" 

There  was  no  one  found  to  agree  with  this 
except  the  good  priest,  and  one  other,  a  poor 
poet  who  had  somehow  been  included  in  the 
train,  but  whom  few  regarded.  The  priest  kept 
his  thoughts  to  himself,  but  the  poet  created  some 
amusement  by  openly  agreeing  with  the  duke. 

But,  of  course,  the  royal  will  had  to  be  accepted 
with  such  grace  as  the  courtiers  could  find  to 
hide  their  discontented — and  even,  in  the  case 
of  some,  their  disaffected — hearts;  for  some  of 
them,  at  this  new  whimsy  of  the  duke's,  secretly 
sent  messengers  to  the  would-be  usurper  prom- 
ising him  their  allegiance  and  support. 

So,  at  length,  after  a  day's  journey,  the  peaceful 
valley  was  reached  where  the  poet  lay  at  rest 
among  the  simple  peasants  whom  he  had  loved — 
kindly  folk  who  still  carried  his  songs  in  their 
hearts,  and  sang  them  at  evening  to  their  babies 

&3 


THE    MAKER   OF    RAINBOWS 

and  sweethearts,  and  each  day  brought  flowers 
to  his  green,  bird-haunted  grave. 

When  the  duke  came  and  bowed  his  head  in 
that  quiet  place,  carrying  in  his  hands  a  wreath 
of  laurel,  his  heart  was  much  moved  by  their 
simple  flowers  lying  there,  fresh  and  glittering,  as 
with  new-shed  tears;  and,  as  he  reverently  knelt 
and  placed  the  wreath  upon  the  sleeping  mound, 
he  said  aloud,  in  the  humility  of  his  great  heart : 

"What  is  such  an  offering  as  mine,  compared 
with  these?" 

And  a  picture  came  to  him  of  the  peaceful 
valley  he  had  left  behind,  and  of  the  simple  folk 
he  loved  who  were  his  friends,  and  more  and  more 
his  heart  missed  them,  and  less  and  less  it  re- 
joiced at  the  journey  still  before  him,  and  still 
more  foolish  seemed  his  crown. 

So,  with  a  great  sigh,  he  rose  from  the  poet's 
grave,  and  gave  word  for  the  carriages  once  more 
to  move  along  the  leafy  lanes. 

And,  to  the  great  satisfaction  of  the  courtiers, 
the  duke  delayed  them  no  more,  for  his  heart 
grew  heavier  within  him,  and  he  sat  with  his 
head  on  his  breast,  speaking  little  even  to  his 
dear  friend  the  priest,  who  rode  with  him,  and 
scarcely  looking  out  of  the  windows  of  his  car- 
riage, for  any  wonder  of  the  way. 

84 


ON   HIS    WAY   TO    BE    CROWNED 

At  length  the  broad  walls  and  towers  of  the 
city  came  in  sight,— a  city  set  in  a  fair  land  of 
meadow  and  stream.  The  morning  sun  shone 
bright  over  it,  and  the  priest,  looking  up,  per- 
ceived how  it  glittered  upon  a  great  building  of 
many  white  towers,  whose  gilt  pinnacles  gleamed 
like  so  many  crowns  of  gold. 

"Look,  your  Majesty,"  he  said,  with  a  sad  at- 
tempt at  gaiety,  "yonder  is  your  palace." 

And  the  duke  looked  up  from  a  deep  reverie, 
and  saw  his  palace,  and  groaned  aloud. 

But  presently  there  came  a  sad  twinkle  in  his 
sad  eyes,  as  he  descried  another  building  of  many 
peaks  and  pinnacles  glittering  in  the  sun. 

"Look  up,  my  Lord  Archbishop,"  he  said,  turn- 
ing to  his  friend,  "yonder  is  your  palace." 

And  as  the  good  priest  looked,  his  face  was  all 
sorrow,  and  the  tears  overflowed  his  eyes,  as  he 
thought  of  the  simple  souls  once  in  his  keeping, 
in  his  parish  far  away. 

But  presently  the  king,  looking  again  toward 
the  palace,  descried  a  flag  floating  from  one  of 
the  towers,  covered  with  heraldic  devices. 

As  he  looked.it  seemed  that  ten  years  of  weariness 
fell  from  his  face,  and  a  great  joy  returned. 

"Look,"  he  said,  almost  in  a  whisper,  to  the 
priest,  "those  are  not  my  arms!  ..." 

85 


THE    MAKER   OF    RAINBOWS 

The  priest  looked,  and  then  looked  again  into 
the  duke's  eyes,  and  ten  years  of  weariness  fell 
from  his  face  also,  and  a  great  joy  returned. 

"Thank  God!  we  are  saved,"  the  duke  and  the 
priest  exclaimed  together,  and  fell  laughing  upon 
each  other's  shoulders.  For  the  arms  floating 
from  the  tower  of  the  palace  were  the  arms  of 
the  usurper,  and  the  king  that  cared  not  to  be  a 
king  had  lost  his  kingdom. 

And,  while  they  were  still  rejoicing  together, 
there  came  the  sound  of  many  horsemen  from 
the  direction  of  the  city,  a  cavalcade  of  many 
glittering  spears.  The  duke  halted  his  train  to 
await  their  coming,  and  when  they  had  arrived 
where  the  duke  was,  a  herald  in  cloth  of  gold 
broke  from  their  ranks  and  read  aloud  from  a 
great  parchment  many  sounding  words — the 
meaning  of  which  was  that  the  good  Duke  Stan- 
islaus had  been  deposed  from  his  kingdom,  and 
that  the  High  and  Mighty  Prince,  the  usurper, 
reigned  in  his  stead. 

When  the  herald  had  concluded  the  duke's 
voice  was  heard  in  reply: 

"It  is  well — it  is  very  well!"  he  said.  "Gather 
yonder  white  flower  and  take  it  back  to  your 
master,  and  say  that  it  is  the  white  flower  of 
peace  betwixt  him  and  me." 

86 


ON    HIS    WAY   TO    BE   CROWNED 

And  astonishment  fell  on  all,  and  no  one,  of 
course,  except  the  priest,  understood.  All  thought 
that  the  good  duke  had  lost  his  wits,  which, 
indeed,  had  been  the  growing  belief  of  his  cour- 
tiers for  some  time. 

But  the  herald  gathered  the  white  flower  and 
carried  it  back  to  the  city,  with  sound  of  many 
trumpets.  Need  one  say  that  the  usurper  least 
of  all  understood? 

With  the  herald  went  all  the  gilded  coaches 
and  the  fine  ladies  and  gentlemen,  complaining 
sadly  that  they  had  had  such  a  long  and  tedious 
journey  to  no  purpose,  and  hastening  with  all 
speed  to  take  their  allegiance  to  the  new  king. 

The  duke's  own  people  alone  remained  with 
him,  and,  when  all  the  rest  had  gone,  the  duke 
gave  orders  for  the  horses'  heads  to  be  turned 
homeward,  to  the  green  valley  in  which  alone 
he  cared  to  be  a  king. 

"Back  to  the  bees  and  the  books  and  the  kind 
country  hearts,"  cried  the  duke  to  his  friend. 

Back  to  the  little  church  among  the  quiet  trees, ' ' 
added  the  priest,  who  had  cared  as  little  for  an 
archbishop's  miter  as  the  duke  for  a  kingly  crown. 
Since  then  the  duke  had  been  left  to  hive  his 
bees  in  peace,  and  it  may  be  added  that  he  has 
never  been  known  to  lose  his  temper  again. 

87 


THE    STOLEN    DREAM 

rHE  sun  was  setting,  and  slanting 
long  lanes  of  golden  light  through 
the  trees,  as  an  old  man,  borne  down 
by  a  heavy  pack,  came  wearily 
through  the  wood,  and  at  last,  as  if 
worn  out  with  the  day's  travel,  unshouldered  his 
burden  and  threw  himself  down  to  rest  at  the 
foot  of  a  great  oak-tree.  He  was  very  old,  older 
far  he  seemed  than  the  tree  under  whose  gnarled 
boughs  he  was  resting,  though  that  looked  as  if 
it  had  been  growing  since  the  beginning  of  the 
world.  His  back  was  bent  as  with  the  weight  of 
years,  though  really  it  had  become  so  from  the 
weight  of  the  pack  that  he  carried ;  his  cheeks  were 
furrowed  like  the  bark  of  a  tree,  and  far  down 
upon  his  breast  fell  a  beard  as  white  as  snow. 
But  his  deep-set  eyes  were  still  bright  and  keen, 
though  sly  and  cruel,  and  his  long  nose  was  like 
the  beak  of  a  hawk.  His  hands  were  like  roots 
strong  and  knotted,  and  his  fingers  ended  in 
talon-like  nails.     In  repose,  even,  they  seemed  to 

88 


THE    STOLEN    DREAM 

be  clutching  something,  something  they  loved  to 
touch,  and  would  never  let  go.  His  clothes  were 
in  rags  and  his  shoes  scarce  held  to  his  feet. 
He  seemed  as  abjectly  poor  as  he  was  abjectly 
old. 

Presently,  when  he  had  rested  awhile,  he  turned 
to  his  pack,  and,  furtively  glancing  with  his  keen 
eyes  up  and  down  the  wood,  to  make  sure  that 
he  was  alone,  he  drew  from  it  a  sack  of  leather 
which  was  evidently  of  great  weight.  Its  mouth 
was  fastened  by  sliding  thongs,  which  he  loosened 
with  tremulous,  eager  hands.  First  he  took  from 
the  bag  a  square  of  some  purple  silk  stuff,  which 
he  spread  out  on  the  turf  beside  him,  and  then, 
his  eyes  gleaming  with  a  wild  light,  he  carefully 
poured  out  the  contents  of  the  bag  on  to  the 
purple  square,  a  torrent  of  gold  and  silver  coins 
and  precious  stones  flashing  like  rainbows — a 
king's  treasure.  The  setting  sun  flashed  on  the 
glittering  heap,  turning  it  into  a  dazzle  of  many- 
colored  fire.  The  treasure  seemed  to  light  up  the 
wood  far  and  near,  and  the  gaudy  summer  flowers, 
that  a  moment  before  had  seemed  so  bright  and 
splendid,  fell  into  shadow  before  its  radiance. 

The  old  man  bathed  his  claw-like  hands  in  the 
treasure  with  a  ghoulish  ecstasy,  and  let  the  gold 
and  silver  pour  through  his  fingers  over  and  over 

89 


THE    MAKER    OF    RAINBOWS 

again,  streams  of  jeweled  light  gleaming  and 
flashing  in  the  level  rays  of  the  sun.  As  he  did 
so,  he  murmured  inarticulately  to  himself,  gloating 
and  gurgling  with  a  lonely,  hideous  joy. 

Suddenly  a  look  of  fear  came  over  his  face;  he 
seemed  to  hear  voices  coming  up  the  wood,  and, 
huddling  his  treasure  swiftly  back  again  into  the 
leathern  bag,  and  the  bag  into  the  folds  of  his 
pack,  he  rose  and  sought  some  bushes  near  by 
to  hide  himself  from  the  sight  of  whomsoever  it 
was  that  approached.  But,  as  he  shouldered  his 
pack,  he  half  staggered,  for  the  pack  was  of  great 
weight  and  he  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 

"It  grows  heavier  and  heavier,"  he  muttered. 
"I  cannot  carry  it  much  longer.  I  shall  never  be 
able  to  carry  it  with  me  to  the  grave." 

As  he  disappeared  among  the  bushes,  a  young 
man  and  a  young  woman,  with  arms  twined 
round  each  other,  came  slowly  up  the  glade  and 
presently  sat  down  at  the  foot  of  the  tree  where 
the  old  man  had  been  resting  a  moment  or  two 
before. 

"Why,  what  is  this?"  presently  exclaimed  the 
young  girl,  picking  up  something  bright  out  of 
the  grass.  It  was  a  gold  coin,  which,  in  his  haste, 
the  old  man  had  let  slip  through  his  fingers. 

"Gold!"  they  both  exclaimed  together. 
90 


THE    STOLEN    DREAM 

"It  will  buy  you  a  new  silk  gown,"  said  the 
lover.  "Who  ever  heard  of  such  luck?"  And 
then  he  sighed. 

"Ah!  dear  heart,"  he  said,  "if  only  we  had 
more  like  that!    Then  we  could  fulfil  our  dream." 

As  the  sun  poured  its  last  rays  over  them  there 
at  the  foot  of  the  oak,  it  was  to  be  seen  that  they 
were  very  poor.  Their  clothes  were  old  and 
weather-stained,  and  they  had  no  shoes  to  their 
feet;  but  the  white  feet  of  the  girl  shone  like 
ivory  flowers  in  the  grass,  and  her  hair  was  a  sheaf 
of  ruddy  gold.  Nor  was  there  a  jewel  in  all  the 
old  man's  treasure  as  blue  as  her  eyes.  And  the 
young  man,  in  his  manly  fashion,  was  no  less 
brave  and  fair  to  look  upon. 

In  a  little  while  they  turned  to  a  poor  wallet 
at  the  young  man's  side.  ' '  Let  us  eat  our  supper, ' ' 
they  said. 

But  there  was  little  more  than  a  crust  or  two, 
a  few  morsels  of  cheese,  and  a  mouthful  or  two 
of  sour  wine.  Still,  they  were  accustomed  to 
being  hungry,  and  the  thought  of  the  gold  coin 
cheered  their  hearts.  So  they  grew  content,  and 
after  a  while  they  nestled  close  into  each  other's 
arms  and  fell  asleep,  while  slowly  and  softly 
through  the  woods  came  the  light  of  the  moon. 

Now  all  this  time  the  old  man  had  lain  hidden, 
91 


THE    MAKER   OF    RAINBOWS 

crouched  down  among  the  bushes,  afraid  almost 
to  draw  his  breath,  but  from  where  he  was  he 
could  hear  and  see  all,  and  had  overheard  all 
that  had  been  said.  At  length,  after  the  lovers 
had  been  silent  for  a  long  time,  he  took  courage 
to  peer  out  from  his  hiding-place,  and  he  saw 
that  they  were  asleep.  He  would  wait  a  little 
longer,  though,  till  their  sleep  was  sounder,  and 
then  he  might  be  able  perhaps  to  creep  away  un- 
heard. So  he  waited  on,  and  the  moon  grew 
brighter  and  brighter,  and  flooded  the  woods 
with  its  strange  silver.  And  the  lovers  fell  deeper 
and  deeper  asleep. 

"It  will  be  safe  now,"  said  the  old  man,  half 
rising  and  looking  out  from  his  bushes.  But  this 
time,  as  he  looked  out,  he  saw  something,  some- 
thing very  strange  and  beautiful. 

Hovering  over  the  sleeping  lovers  was  a  float- 
ing, flickering  shape  that  seemed  made  of  moon- 
beams, with  two  great  shining  stars  for  its  eyes. 
It  was  the  dream  that  came  nightly  to  watch 
over  the  sleep  of  the  lovers;  and,  as  the  miser 
gazed  at  it  in  wonder,  a  strange  change  came 
over  his  soul,  and  he  saw  that  all  the  treasure 
he  had  hoarded  so  long — gathered  by  the  cruel 
practices  of  years,  and  with  carrying  which  about/ 
the   world   his   back   had   grown    bent — was   as' 

92 


THE    STOLEN    DREAM 

dross  compared  with  this  beautiful  dream  of  two 
poor  lovers,  to  whom  but  one  of  all  his  gold  pieces 
had  seemed  like  a  fortune. 

"What,  after  all,  is  it  to  me  but  a  weary  bur- 
den my  shoulders  grow  too  old  to  carry,"  he 
murmured,  "and  for  the  sake  of  which  my  life  is 
in  danger  wherever  I  go,  and  to  guard  which  I 
must  hide  away  from  the  eyes  of  men?" 

And  the  longer  he  gazed  on  the  fair,  shining 
vision,  the  more  the  longing  grew  within  him 
to  possess  it  for  himself. 

"They  shall  have  my  treasure  in  exchange," 
he  said  to  himself,  approaching  nearer  to  the 
sleepers,  treading  softly  lest  he  should  awaken 
them.  But  they  slept  on,  lost  in  the  profound 
slumber  of  innocent  youth.  As  he  drew  near, 
the  dream  shrank  from  him,  with  fear  in  its  starry 
eyes;  but  it  seemed  the  more  beautiful  to  the  old 
man  the  closer  he  came  to  it  and  saw  of  what 
divine  radiance  it  was  made;  and,  with  his  desire, 
his  confidence  grew  greater.  So,  softly  placing 
his  leather  bag  in  the  flowers  by  the  side  of  the 
sleepers,  he  thrust  out  his  talon-like  fingers  and 
snatched  the  dream  by  the  hand,  and  hurried  away, 
dragging  it  after  him  down  the  wood,  fearfully  turn- 
ing now  and  again  to  see  that  he  was  not  pursued. 

But  the  sleepers  still  slept  on,  and  by  morning 
7  93 


THE    MAKER   OF    RAINBOWS 

the  miser  was  far  away,  with  the  captive  dream 
by  his  side. 

As  the  earliest  birds  chimed  through  the  wood, 
and  the  dawn  glittered  on  the  dewy  flowers,  the 
lovers  awoke  and  kissed  each  other  and  laughed 
in  the  light  of  the  new  day. 

"But  what  is  this? "  cried  the  girl,  and  her  hands 
fell  from  the  pretty  task  of  coiling  up  the  sunrise 
of  her  hair. 

With  a  cry  they  both  fell  upon  the  leather 
bag,  lying  there  so  mysteriously  among  the  wood- 
lilies  in  the  grass.  With  eager  ringers  they  drew 
apart  the  leather  thongs,  and  went  half -mad  with 
wonder  and  joy  as  they  poured  out  the  glittering 
treasure  in  the  morning  sun. 

"What  can  it  all  mean?"  they  cried.  "The 
fairies  must  have  been  here  in  the  night." 

But  the  treasure  seemed  real  enough.  The 
jewels  were  not  merely  dewdrops  turned  to  dia- 
monds and  rubies  and  amethysts  by  the  magic 
beams  of  the  sun,  nor  was  the  gold  mere  gold 
of  faerie,  but  coins  bearing  the  image  of  the  king 
of  the  land.  Here  were  real  jewels,  real  gold 
and  silver.  Like  children,  they  dabbled  their 
hands  in  the  shining  heap,  tossing  them  up  and 
pouring  them  from  one  hand  to  the  other,  flashing 
and  shimmering  in  the  morning  light. 

94 


THE    STOLEN    DREAM 

Then  a  fear  came  on  them. 
"But  folk  will  say  that  we  have  stolen  them," 
said  the  youth;  "they  will  take  them  from  us, 
and  cast  us  into  prison." 

"No,  I  believe  some  god  has  heard  our  prayer," 
said  the  girl,  "and  sent  them  down  from  heaven 
in  the  night.  He  who  sent  them  will  see  that  we 
come  to  no  harm." 

And  again  they  fell  to  pouring  them  through 
their  fingers  and  babbling  in  their  delight. 

"Do  you  remember  what  we  said  last  night 
when  we  found  the  gold  piece  ? "  said  the  girl.  ' '  If 
only  we  had  more  of  them !  Surely  our  good  angel 
heard  us,  and  sent  them  in  answer." 

"It  is  true,"  said  the  young  man.  "They 
were  sent  to  fulfil  our  dream." 

"Our  poor  starved  and  tattered  dream!"  said 
the  girl.  "How  splendidly  we  can  clothe  and 
feed  it  now!  What  a  fine  house  we  can  build  for 
it  to  live  in!  It  shall  eat  from  gold  and  silver 
plate,  and  it  shall  wear  robes  of  wonderful  silks 
and  lawns  like  rainbows,  and  glitter  with  jewels, 
blue  and  yellow  and  ruby,  jewels  like  fire  fountains 
and  the  depths  of  the  sea." 

But,  as  they  spoke,  a  sudden  disquietude  fell 
over  them,  and  they  looked  at  each  other  with 
a  new  fear. 


95 


THE    MAKER   OF    RAINBOWS 

"But  where  is  our  dream?"  said  the  girl,  look- 
ing anxiously  around.  And  they  realized  that 
their  dream  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

"I  seemed  to  miss  it  once  in  the  night,"  an- 
swered the  young  man  in  alarm,  "but  I  was  too 
sleepy  to  heed.     Where  can  it  be?" 

"It  cannot  be  far  away,"  said  the  girl.  "Per- 
haps it  has  wandered  off  among  the  flowers." 

But  they  were  now  thoroughly  alarmed. 

"Where  can  it  have  gone?"  they  both  cried. 
And  they  rose  up  and  ran  to  and  fro  through 
the  wood,  calling  out  aloud  on  their  dream.  But 
no  voice  came  back  in  reply,  nor, .  though  they 
sought  high  and  low  in  covert  and  brake,  could 
they  find  a  sign  of  it  anywhere.  Their  dream  was 
lost.  Seek  as  they  might,  it  was  nowhere  to  be 
found. 

And  then  they  sat  down  by  the  treasure  weep- 
ing, forgetting  it  all  in  this  new  sorrow. 

"What  shall  we  do?"  they  cried.  "We  have 
lost  our  dream."  x*\_ 

For  a  while  they  sat  on,  inconsolable.  Then 
a  thought  came  to  the  girl. 

1 '  Some  one  must  have  stolen  it  from  us.  It  would 
never  have  left  us  of  its  own  accord,"  said  she. 

And,  as  she  spoke,  her  eyes  fell  on  the  forgotten 
treasure. 

96 


THE    STOLEN    DREAM 

"What  use  are  these  to  us  now,  without  our 
dream?'"  she  said. 

"Who  knows?"  said  the  young  man;  "perhaps 
some  one  has  stolen  our  dream  to  sell  it  into 
bondage.  We  must  go  and  seek  it,  and  maybe 
we  can  buy  it  back  again  with  this  treasure." 

"Let  us  start  at  once,"  said  the  girl,  drying 
her  tears  at  this  ray  of  hope;  and  so,  replacing 
the  treasure  in  the  bag,  the  young  man  slung  it 
at  the  end  of  his  staff,  and  together  they  set  off 
down  the  wood,  seeking  their  lost  dream. 

Meanwhile,  the  old  man  had  journeyed  hastily 
and  far,  the  dream  following  in  his  footsteps, 
sorrowing;  and  at  length  he  came  to  a  fair  meadow, 
and  by  the  edge  of  a  stream  he  sat  down  to  rest 
himself,  and  called  the  dream  to  his  side. 

The  dream  shone  nothing  like  so  brightly  as 
in  the  moonlit  woodland,  and  its  eyes  were  heavy 
as  with  weeping. 

"Sing  to  me,"  said  the  old  man,  "to  cheer  my 
tired  heart." 

"I  know  no  songs,"  said  the  dream,  sadly. 

"You  lie,"  said  the  old  man.  "I  saw  the  songs 
last  night  in  the  depths  of  your  eyes." 

"I  cannot  sing  them  to  you,"  said  the  dream. 
"I  can  only  sing  them  to  the  simple  hearts  I 
made  them  for,  the  hearts  you  stole  me  from." 

97 


THE    MAKER   OF    RAINBOWS 

"Stole  you!"  said  the  old  man.  "Did  I  not 
leave  my  treasure  in  exchange?" 

"Your  treasure  will  be  nothing  to  them  without 
me,"  said  the  dream.    ^-~* — — 

"You  talk  folly,"  said  the  old  man.  "With 
my  treasure  they  can  buy  other  dreams  just  as 
fair  as  you  are.  Do  you  think  that  you  are  the 
only  dream  in  the  world?  There  is  no  dream 
that  money  cannot  buy." 

"But  I  am  their  own  dream.  They  will  be 
happy  with  no  other,"  said  the  dream. 

"You  shall  sing  to  me,  all  the  same,"  said  the 
old  man,  angrily.  But  the  dream  shrank  from 
him  and  covered  its  face. 

"If  I  sang  to  you,  you  would  not  under- 
stand. Your  heart  is  old  and  hard  and  cruel, 
and  my  songs  are  all  of  youth  and  love  and 
joy." 

"Those  are  the  songs  I  would  hear,"  said  the 
old  man. 

"But  I  cannot  sing  them  to  you,  and  if  I  sang 
them  you  could  not  hear." 

"Sing,"  again  cried  the  old  man,  harshly; 
"sing,  I  bid  you." 

"I  can  never  sing  again,"  said  the  dream. 
"I  can  only  die." 

And  for  none  of  the  old  man's  threats  would 
98 


THE    STOLEN    DREAM 

the  dream  sing  to  him,  but  sat  apart,  mourning 
the  loved  ones  it  had  lost. 

So  several  days  passed  by,  and  every  day  the 
dream  was  growing  less  bright,  a  creature  of  tears 
and  sighs,  more  and  more  fading  away,  like  a 
withering  flower.  At  length  it  was  nothing  but 
a  gray  shadow,  a  weary  shape  of  mist  that  seemed 
ready  to  dissolve  and  vanish  at  any  breath  of 
wind.  No  one  could  have  known  it  for  that  ra- 
diant vision  that  had  hovered  shimmering  with 
such  a  divine  light  over  the  sleep  of  the  lovers. 

At  length  the  old  man  lost  patience,  and  began 
to  curse  himself  for  a  fool  in  that  he  had  parted 
with  so  great  a  treasure  for  this  worthless,  whim- 
pering thing.  And  he  raved  like  a  madman  as 
he  saw  in  fancy  all  the  gold  and  silver  and  rainbow- 
tinted  jewels  he  had  so  foolishly  thrown  away. 

"Take  me  back  to  them,"  said  the  dream, 
"and  they  will  give  you  back  your  treasure." 

"A  likely  thing,"  raged  the  old  man,  "to  give 
back  a  treasure  like  that  for  such  a  sorry  phan- 
tom." 

"You  will  see,"  said  the  dream. 

As  there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done,  the  old 
man  took  up  his  staff. 

"Come  along,  then,"  said  he,  and  started  off 
in  the  direction  of  the  wood,  and,  though  it  was 

99 


THE    MAKER   OF    RAINBOWS 

some  days'  journey,  a  glow  flushed  all  through 
the  gray  shape  of  the  dream  at  the  news,  and  its 
eyes  began  to  shine  again. 

And  so  they  took  their  way. 

But  meanwhile  the  two  lovers  had  gone  from 
village  to  village,  and  city  to  city,  vainly  asking 
news  of  their  dream.  And  to  every  one  they  asked 
they  showed  their  treasure  and  said: 

"This  is  all  yours  if  you  can  but  give  us  back 
our  dream." 

But  nowhere  could  they  learn  any  tidings, 
but  gleaned  only  mockery  and  derision. 

"You  must  be  mad,"  said  some,  "to  seek  a 
dream  when  you  have  all  that  wealth  in  your 
pack.  Of  what  use  is  a  dream  to  any  one?  And 
what  more  dream  do  you  want  than  gold  and 
precious  stones?" 

"Ah!  our  dream,"  said  the  lovers,  "is  worth 
all  the  gold  and  jewels  in  the  world." 

Sometimes  others  would  come,  bringing  their 
own  dreams. 

"Take  this,"  they  would  say,  "and  give  us 
your  treasure." 

But  the  lovers  would  shake  their  heads  sadly. 

"No,  your  dreams  are  not  so  beautiful  as  ours. 
No  other  dream  can  take  its  place.  We  can  only 
be  happy  with  our  own  dream." 


THE    STOLEN    DREAM 

And,  indeed,  the  dreams  that  were  brought  to 
them  seemed  poor,  pitiful,  make-believe  things, 
often  ignoble,  misbegotten,  sordid,  and  cruel.  To 
the  lovers  they  seemed  not  dreams  at  all,  but 
shapes  of  greed  and  selfish  desire. 

So  the  days  passed,  bringing  them  neither 
tidings  nor  hope,  and  there  came  at  length  an 
evening  when  they  turned  their  steps  again  to 
the  woodland,  and  sat  down  once  more  under  the 
great  oak-tree  in  the  sunset. 

"Perhaps  our  dream  has  been  waiting  for  us 
here  all  the  time,"  they  said. 

But  the  wood  was  empty  and  echoing,  and  they 
sat  and  ate  their  supper  as  before,  but  silently 
and  in  sorrow,  and  as  the  sun  set  they  fell  asleep 
as  before  in  each  other's  arms,  but  with  tears  glit- 
tering on  their  eyelids. 

And  again  the  moon  came  flooding  the  spaces 
of  the  wood,  and  nothing  was  heard  but  their 
breathing  and  the  song  of  a  distant  nightin- 
gale. 

But  presently  while  they  slept  there  was  a  sound 
of  stealthy  footsteps  coming  up  the  wood. 

It  was  the  old  man,  with  the  dream  shining 
by  his  side,  and  ever  and  anon  running  ahead 
of  him  in  the  eagerness  of  its  hope.  Suddenly  it 
stopped,  glowing  and  shimmering  like  the  dancing 

IOI 


THE    MAKER   OF    RAINBOWS 

of  the  northern  lights,  and  placed  a  starry  finger 
on  its  lips  for  silence. 

"See,"  it  whispered,  and  there  were  the  lovers, 
lying  lost  in  sleep. 

But  the  old  man's  wolfish  eyes  saw  but  one 
thing.  There  lay  the  leather  bag  of  his  treasure 
just  as  he  had  left  it.  Without  a  word,  he  snatched 
it  up  and  hastened  off  with  it  down  the  wood, 
gurgling  uncouthly  to  himself. 

"Oh,  my  beauties!"  he  cried,  as  he  sat  himself 
down  afar  off  and  poured  out  the  gold  and  the 
silver  and  the  gleaming  stones  into  the  moon- 
light. "Oh,  my  love,  my  life,  and  my  delight! 
What  other  dream  could  I  have  but  you?" 

Meanwhile,  the  lovers  stirred  in  their  sleep,  and 
murmured  to  each  other. 

"I  seemed  to  hear  singing,"  each  said. 

And,  half  opening  their  eyes,  they  saw  their 
dream  shining  and  singing  above  them  in  the 
moonbeams,  lovelier  than  ever  before,  a  shape 
of  heavenly  silver,  with  two  stars  for  its  eyes. 

"Our  dream  has  come  back!"  they  cried  to 
each  other.  "Dear  dream,  we  had  to  lose  you 
to  know  how  beautiful  you  are!" 

And  with  a  happy  sigh  they  turned  to  sleep 
again,  while  the  dream  kept  watch  over  them 
till  the  dawn. 

102 


THE    STERN    EDUCATION 
OF    CLOWNS 

CLOWN  out  of  work  for  many- 
weeks  had  trudged  the  country 
roads,  footsore  and  hungry,  vainly 
seeking  an  engagement.  At  length, 
one  afternoon,  he  arrived  at  a  cer- 
tain village  and  spied  the  canvas  tent  and  the 
painted  wagons  of  a  traveling  circus.  This  sight 
put  a  pale  hope  into  his  sad  heart,  and  he  ap- 
proached the  tent  as  bravely  as  he  could  to  find 
the  proprietor  of  the  show.  Sad  as  was  his  heart, 
his  face  looked  sadder;  and  he  did  not,  it  is  to 
be  feared,  make  a  very  impressive  appearance, 
as  at  last  he  found  the  proprietor  sitting  on  the 
side  of  the  sawdust  ring,  eating  lunch  with  the 
Columbine.  The  circus  proprietor  was  large  and 
swarthy  and  brutal  to  look  on,  and  his  sullen,  cruel 
eyes  looked  sternly  at  the  little  clown,  who,  be- 
tween a  sad  heart  and  a  long-empty  stomach,  had 
very  little  courage  left  in  his  frame. 

103 


THE    MAKER    OF    RAINBOWS 

"Well!"  roared  the  proprietor.     "What  is  it?" 

The  little  clown  explained  his  profession  and 
his  need  of  an  engagement;  and  stood  there,  hat 
in  hand,  with  tremulous  knees. 

The  circus  proprietor  looked  at  him  a  long  time 
in  contemptuous  silence,  and  then,  with  an  ugly 
sneer,  said: 

"Have  you  ever  had  your  heart  broken?" 

"Indeed  I  have,"  answered  the  clown.  "For 
to  have  your  heart  broken  is  part  of  the  business 
of  a  clown." 

"How  many  times?" 

"Six." 

"Not  enough,"  answered  the  proprietor,  rough- 
ly, turning  again  to  his  lunch  with  the  Colum- 
bine. "Get  it  broken  again  and  come  back;  then 
perhaps  we  can  talk  business." 

And  the  little  clown  went  away;  but  he  had 
hardly  gone  a  few  yards  before  his  heart  broke 
for  the  seventh  time — because  of  the  bitter- 
ness of  the  world. 

Yet,  being  wise,  he  waited  a  day  or  two,  living 
as  best  he  could  along  the  country  roads,  and  then 
at  length  he  came  back  about  noon  to  the  circus, 
and  again  the  proprietor  was  eating  lunch  with  the 
Columbine,  and  again  he  looked  up,  sullen  and 
sneering,  and  said : 

104 


THE    EDUCATION    OF    CLOWNS 

"Well"' 

The  clown  explained  that  hie  heart  had  been 
broken  for  the  seventh  time. 

"Good,"  said  the  circus  proprietor.  "Wait  till 
I  have  eaten  lunch  and  we  will  talk  business." 

And  the  clown  sat  at  the  side  of  the  ring,  and 
the  proprietor  and  the  Columbine  ate  and  laughed 
as  if  he  were  not  there. 

At  length,  finishing  a  tankard  of  ale,  and  wiping 
his  mouth  on  the  back  of  his  hand,  the  circus 
proprietor  arose  and  beckoned  the  clown  to  come 
to  him. 

At  the  same  time  he  took  a  long  ringmaster's 
whip,  and  the  Columbine  took  one  end  of  a 
skipping-rope,  while  he  held  the  other. 

"Now,"  said  the  circus  proprietor,  "while  we 
twirl  the  skipping-rope  you  are  to  dance  over  it, 
and  at  the  same  time  I  will  lash  your  shins  with 
this  whip;  and  if,  as  you  skip  over  the  rope,  you 
can  laugh  and  sing — like  a  child  dancing  on  blue 
flowers  in  a  meadow — I  will  give  you" — the  pro- 
prietor hesitated  a  moment — "six  dollars  a  week." 

So  it  was  that  the  clown  at  last  got  an  engage- 
ment. 

THE    END 


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